Set the Fire
by Lisa Paris
Summary: First of all, he was conscious of the quiet. Of the cold, and the unearthly silence . . .
1. Chapter 1

_**Set the Fire**_

* * *

**Set the Fire **

**Author:** Lisa Paris

**Disclaimer: ** I own no fractions, atoms or particles of Numb3rs. I really wish I owned Don.

* * *

**_Part One_**

_'I'm miles from where you are,_

_I'm laying down on the cold ground,_

_And I – I pray that something picks me up,_

_And sets me down in your warm arms . . .'_

_'Set the Fire to the Third Bar'_ Snow Patrol with Martha Wainwright

* * *

_**Prologue**_

Carmine Redondo picked up the file and leafed through the snapshots again. His anger was almost palpable to anyone who knew him well. He'd spent a lot of time on this particular predicament and had come to a final decision. He stared with hard eyes at the man in the photograph. The man who was going to pay. No one crossed him and got away with it. No one hurt him like this man had. There was a price to be forfeited - a reckoning. Eppes would soon realise this to his cost.

"My father always told me to keep things simple. There's no need to complicate matters. There's only one problem here, gentlemen, I want you to fix it for me."

The two men sitting opposite glanced at each other. The taller of them spoke. "It would be easier to take out the brother – or even the old man. Neither of them will be on the look-out. Neither of them will be armed."

For a moment, there was silence. You could have cut the air with a knife. The tall man, Miller, knew he'd made a mistake before Redondo exploded in anger. "What the fuck do I pay you for? Haven't you learned anything?" He threw one of the black and white photo's across the desk at them, and the others scattered like leaves over the floor. "All these months you been watching Eppes and you ain't worked out the obvious thing?"

"He's good." Miller hastily agreed with him. "Sharp - at the top of his game. He's gonna be on the lookout for trouble, especially considering the timing. That's why I thought baby brother would be easier to use as leverage. He ain't gonna put up much of a fight and the two of them are pretty damned close."

"Exactly." Redondo reached for the tumbler of scotch at his side. He spoke patiently, as if explaining something to a child. "Right now, Eppes is gonna give evidence against me because it's his duty. His job as a good little suit. I know what kind of man he is. I've seen his type before. He's a _by the book_, straight-laced, straight-shooting Fed, but that changes, if we target his family. You hurt the old man or the math professor, and it makes things personal then." He took a large swallow of the scotch and scowled. "You think Eppes won't get even? I don't want him on some kind of vendetta. He'll _still_ testify against me. He'd make it his life's work to bury me."

"We'd never get him off our backs, no matter what the jury decide. The Feds'll put the heat on us and choke-up our operation." The third man spoke for the first time, nodding his head in agreement. "Carmine's right about this one. We do it the old fashioned way. A simple hit. No witnesses. Let him vanish off the earth without a trace."

"Hire some outsiders to do it. Lomax, I'll leave that up to you. Careful who you choose to pull the trigger, I don't want them linked back to us. Take him out to the usual place and put a bullet in his head. You'll need to contact the works guy in order to get rid of the evidence. " Redondo looked at his partners with satisfaction. "The Feds and the DA can think what they like – they can't touch us without any proof. If Eppes doesn't testify, they got nothing, even with his deposition. Gentlemen, we'll be home free. The DA'll be forced to drop the charges and the case will be thrown outta court."

"It's good as done." Lomax got to his feet. "I already got someone in mind for the job - two small-timers, they done stuff for me before. Once it's over and done with, they're expendable. I'll need to give them his picture. I'll get onto it right away."

Redondo picked the photograph and stared at it again. A small frown puckered his forehead as he studied the celluloid image. He didn't much like being duped, but this man had managed to fool him. Usually, he could smell an undercover Fed a mile away – but Eppes still pulled the wool over his eyes. Well, it was time to face the reckoning.

_The bastard was so gonna pay._

He knew a lot about the man in the photograph now. He had made it his personal mission. _His life, his family, his favourite bottled beer – the brand of aftershave he wore._ Even the research had been hard for him. Talk about rubbing salt in a wound. If ever a man was his nemesis - it was Special Agent Don Eppes. It wasn't just about ability, although Eppes had been clever enough. To gain access to their operation spoke volumes, it was more a question of trust.

Oh, yeah, Eppes had impressed him in lots of ways.

_In too many personal ways._

The insolence, the focus, the hard, determined streak. _Oh, yeah, Eppes had impressed him all right. _In retrospect, he should have suspected something - should have known Eppes was working the inside. But by then, he had already fallen for the man. _Fallen._ Hook, line and sinker.

Redondo exhaled, slowly. His hand trembled against the glass of the tumbler. It was a crying shame he couldn't take care of this one himself. Too bad _he _couldn't pull the trigger. Nothing would give him greater pleasure than to personally teach Eppes a lesson. It was tempting, so tempting to take the risk, to do it for self-gratification. He closed his eyes for a second and pictured the gun in his hand.

"There's one more thing I want you to do for me," his voice was cold and dry like winter leaves. "Whoever you get to do it - I want them to tell Eppes why. The bullet comes courtesy of Carmine Redondo. I want the bastard to die knowing that."

* * *

_**Present Time . . .**_

First of all, he was conscious of the quiet. Of the cold, and the unearthly silence. He lay still for a few minutes longer, too weak and confused to move._ 'Where was he? What the fuck had happened to him?'_ He wasn't clearly aware of anything.

Something was sticking his eyes together – something hard and encrusted. He forced himself to rub at them shakily and smelled the coppery tang of blood. _Blood._ It was on his hands and in his eyes; his hair was spiky and stiff with it. His skin felt taut and cracked with the stuff when he tried to move his head.

There was sky above him – which explained the cold – a wide, expanse of black sky. It was studded and pin-pricked with millions of stars which winked impassively down at him. For a while, he must have drifted off again, back into a world of shadowy dreams. There was something . . . someplace he had to go.

_Someone was waiting for him._

He levered a hand beneath his body and tried to push himself up. The stars swung around him like a fairground ride as he fell back in blinding agony.

'_Not good. This was so not good. What the hell was going on?'_

He lay there and tried to remember, but the throb in his head was overpowering. It rose and fell like the swell of the tide and encompassed every fibre of his being. He was shivering uncontrollably now.

'_Cold – so cold - and in pain.' _

It felt like someone had driven a red-hot spike down through the top of his skull. Movement was so not a good idea, but he really didn't want to stay here. He was obviously somewhere out in the open. Dumped in the desert, perhaps?

There was gravel and sand beneath his cheek, and a rock in the small of his back. He supposed he should roll away from it, but there was no energy left in his limbs. He must have hazed in and out for a while, floating in-between pain and awareness. But slowly - infinitely slowly - a kind of clarity returned. A thread of memory and recollection . . . _it didn't make him feel any better_ . . .

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

**Set the Fire **

* * *

**Part Two**

_**Earlier Same Day – Noon**_

Don took one last look at his deposition before closing the file with a snap. He'd read it through at least a dozen times and could probably recite it word for word. _Carmine Redondo, Human Trafficker, specialising in young boys. General all-round sleaze-bag and blight on the human race. _Don shivered, he couldn't help himself. Someone just walked over his grave. He shook his head with mild exasperation, and leant back in his chair. There was no sense getting jumpy about it now. Not now, the whole thing was nearly over. But the case had been particularly distasteful from a personal point of view. Redondo had come onto him big time and his intentions had been very clear.

Don had heard all about the man's predilections, but had never once, expected to be the focus of them. He was far too old, for one thing. At least twenty years past his sell by date. Too straight-talking, too straightforward . . . if you got right down to it, he was just_ too straight._ He'd be relieved when his part in it was over. When this piece of scum was safe behind bars.

"The Redondo case?" Megan Reeves came into the bullpen and glanced over his shoulder. "Aren't you meeting up with the Assistant DA about that, later on this afternoon?"

"Yeah." Don nodded, briefly. "You know I'm in court tomorrow, right? Once the jury hear what I've got to say, the whole thing should be cut and dried. Even Carmine Redondo's fancy lawyers can't grease him out of this one." He got to his feet and picked up his jacket, eager to change the subject. "Gotta go. I'm having lunch with dad at Echo Park - I'm hoping he stopped by _Langers_. Should be back here around 4pm when I'm finished with the ADA."

"Lunch?" Megan sighed after him, soulfully. "I seem to vaguely remember that concept. Must be nice to be boss man and actually get to eat at midday."

"Suck it up, Reeves." He shot her a parting smile over his shoulder and strolled towards the elevators, glad to be leaving the air-conditioned offices in exchange for a little sun on his face.

With any luck, Alan would have brought his trusty picnic hamper, the same one he'd been using for years. They could sit underneath the trees by the lakeside, and he could grab a rare and welcome breather. Pastrami on rye from _Langers,_ fresh tomatoes from the back-yard, and if he was really fortunate, some of dad's cold, roast chicken. Don discovered his mouth was watering. He was actually hungry for a change. His poor stomach had almost forgotten what it felt like to eat proper food at lunchtime.

'_Well, man and even FBI agent, cannot survive on coffee alone.'_

Don's face curved into a smile. Trust Alan to get the timing just right. Trust dad to know something was bothering him. The old, parental antennae, must have been working overtime. Somehow, when life started weighing him down, he could always rely on good old dad.

Don tucked the Redondo file under his arm and stepped out of the elevator. He'd be glad when this one was dead and buried, finished and out of the way. The DA had gone off the deep end and been worried about his safety, but Don had clamped down on the suggestion he might be at any personal risk. He dealt with slime on a daily basis - it was simply part of the deal. There were plenty of villains who bore him a grudge, several more who'd sworn they would kill him. He wasn't on many Christmas card lists. It came along with the territory. Don was damned if he'd alter his personal habits to accommodate the sleaze-bags of this world. The only fear which haunted him always concerned dad and Charlie.

If someone ever went after them because of what he_, Don,_ did for a living . . . even thinking about it made his gut clench with dread.

If he'd really thought he was in serious danger, he would have taken the appropriate precautions. He would have ordered some protection for dad and Charlie, and reluctantly, considered his own safety. As it was, in the months since Redondo's arraignment, life had carried on just as normal. The case had gone fairly quiet in the interim and Don hadn't heard a thing.

A part of him was a little surprised there'd been no form of intimidation. No attempts at financial inducement or phone calls late at night. He'd heard _nada _from the Redondo camp and that suited him just fine. Once the court case was over and done with, he could file it neatly away. He'd spent nearly three months undercover with the bastard himself and the memories still made him feel dirty. For some reason, Redondo had liked him - the man's regard had been genuine enough - but that liking had been based on a fake ID and the man he_ thought_ Don was.

Other than two women getting into the elevator, the underground basement was deserted. Don walked towards the SUV and reached into his pocket for the keys. He sensed rather than heard them behind him, but by then, it was already too late. He was preoccupied with Redondo – still brooding over the case.

_It was a lack of concentration which was about to cost him dear. _

The prod of a gun in the small of his back brought him back down to earth pretty quickly. Before he could speak, an arm hooked around his throat and forced back his head with a jerk. Don twisted abortively in his attacker's grip as the pressure increased on his windpipe. The man responded by tightening his grasp and cutting off Don's air supply.

"What the hell?"

Don struggled, in-spite of the gun in his back, cursing himself for such negligence. Gold flecks were dancing before his eyes as the man exerted force on his jugular. _Careless. _He'd been stupid and careless, to think Carmine would allow him to testify. He'd been applauding himself on staying clear of Redondo, but perhaps he'd been a little too smug. It was getting harder to breathe now. Time to do something to save himself. His self-congratulatory pat on the back had jumped up and bitten him on the ass. The man held something up in his other hand and Don saw the shadow of a needle. His heart gave a lurch of remembered fear – _what the hell was it with him and being drugged?_

'_God damn it, Eppes, better fight your way outta this.'_

Don clasped hold of his attacker's wrist, using it for momentum. At the same time, he smashed back his elbow as hard as it would go. He felt the gratifying crunch of nasal cartilage and bone as the man gave a yell of pain. The syringe fell from his nerveless fingers and bounced, unused, to the ground. It was a minor victory in the scheme of things, but it gave Don a brief flash of satisfaction. He watched the syringe roll away from them, and disappear beneath the SUV.

"Bastard!"

His attacker was hurting. His arm fell away from Don's neck. He clutched at his face, still cursing in pain. His nose was a bloody mess. Don didn't known if the man fell over or not, he was too busy looking out for himself. He was hazy from lack of oxygen – still trying to catch his breath. He swung around and reached down for his gun but the other man was already on him. Something struck him hard across the rib-cage and he doubled over in pain. He managed to drag the Glock out of its holster, single-minded in his tenacity, but the second man shoved him violently aside and spun it out of his hand. Don fell to one knee on the ground and knew he was a lifetime too late.

"Okay, Eppes, we do this the hard way." The man was short of breath from exertion. "A little present from Carmine Redondo." He pointed a gun at Don's head.

Don saw the parking lights gleam on the gun. The dull, grey metal of the silencer barrel. He looked straight into its deadly eye and knew there was no way out. Not this time – maybe not ever. Perhaps it had just been inevitable. Not so much a question of _if_ but more of a _when_ and _how_. Don sensed the change in the man's demeanour; felt the buck of the gun in his hand. Ironically, he felt preternaturally aware in the last, precious moments of life.

For a split second, time seemed to waver . . .

_The concrete floor was cold beneath him. There was a sharp smell of gasoline. Car tires squealed in the distance and echoed through the underground spaces. _Don was conscious of mild surprise, then a feeling of sudden dismay.

'_It couldn't . . . it was going to end like this. So careless – he'd been stupid and careless. My fault, it's all my fault. So sorry, Charlie . . . Dad . . .' _

And then his skull exploded in a blossom of white. A brief starburst of sudden agony.

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

**Set the Fire **

**Author: **Lisa Paris

* * *

**_Part Three_**

_**Echo Park – 1.45pm**_

Alan looked at his wristwatch one more time – it was getting on for 1.45pm. He gave a little huff of resignation, and shook his head with mild annoyance. Okay, he got the message. It was clear Don was not going to show. He sighed, and stared out across the lake, enjoying the sun on his back. He just wished he had someone to share it with. He wished that Don was here too. It had been his suggestion to meet up for lunch, a spur of the moment decision. Occasionally, they met here, at their favourite bench, whenever Don could spare the time, but over the course of the last few months, the FBI had been keeping him pretty busy.

Alan tore the crusts off his sandwich and ripped the bread into pieces. He scattered it about for the small crowd of ducks which clustered around his feet. He'd attracted quite a feathered audience _– _at least some folks appreciated his least he had a little company _- even if they did have webbed feet._

A familiar knot of apprehension began to uncurl in his gut. It lurked inside him continuously, but he managed to hide it pretty well. He knew Don was more than capable; his son was very good at his job. Alan was justifiably proud of him and the work he did for a living. But it was hard, so hard not to worry about Don, especially when Don didn't worry much about himself.

Lately, he'd found Don had been on his mind even more frequently than usual. So much so, Alan was beginning to fret it might be some sort of parental sixth sense. They'd seen less and less of him recently. Alan knew Don was flat-out busy. But his visits had become somewhat of a rarity, as his responsibilities and work-load increased. Alan finally decided enough was enough and had taken the law into his own hands. He'd called Don up the night before, and insisted they meet for lunch.

Whether Don had time or not.

He'd been quite prepared to play the guilt-trip card, and act at being the neglected father, but Don had taken the wind right out of his sails and agreed with surprising alacrity. Paradoxically, it didn't sit right. It made Alan feel even more worried. But there was something about Don's voice on the phone which had triggered an alarm off in his head.

'_And talking of phone calls, Donnie – it would have been polite to let me know you couldn't make it.'_

Alan packed the food back into the cool-box. He shook his head over the wasted roast chicken. He'd cooked it especially this morning because it was one of Don's favourites. Just like he'd driven all the way to Langers to pick up some pastrami on rye. Once in a while, it didn't do any harm to spoil his eldest a bit. _There'd been precious little time for such indulgence during the years when Don was growing up._ He pushed the unbidden thought away from him. He had no desire to dwell on that shook off the familiar feelings of remorse, the re-surfacing of long-buried emotions. The past was over and done with. There was no point resurrecting old ghosts.

Yes, he knew how busy his son was, but good manners never went out of fashion. Don really should have cancelled. He should have given his father a call. Alan paused for a moment, filled with sudden unease, a feeling of something just around the corner. Here it came, the sense of forewarning again. It was starting to seriously worry him. These days, Donnie always looked so weary. Tired and burdened, just plain washed-out. Almost as if he'd forgotten there was another way of life out there.

Just recently, Don had been involved in several, important cases. They were all-absorbing, and time consuming, including one where he'd been undercover. _That one_ had been hard for all of them, especially for him andCharlie. He hated it when Don was off the radar. When Don was vulnerable and incommunicado. It was all about not knowing where his son was. Not knowing if Don might be in trouble. Alan spent many a sleepless night, his mind filled with horrific images. In his nightmares, everything was fragile. It could all be so easily shattered. When the slightest slip-up could mean Don's life - the smallest error could take him forever.

Alan checked his cell again, on the off-chance Don had left a message. There were no missed texts or in-coming calls but he was unable to shake the feeling of disquiet. The fact Don had not tried to contact him was most unlike his son. Alan tried his number one more time. He was beginning to get a little worried.

'_This is Don Eppes – please leave a message . . .'_

So much for that. It didn't help matters much. Don very rarely turned his cell off. Alan stared down at the phone for a while before coming to some sort of decision. He pushed the button for caller direct and tried a different number.

"Megan Reeves."

"Megan? Hello, Alan Eppes here. I wanted to speak to Don."

"Alan," she sounded a little confused. "Didn't he just meet up with you for lunch?"

"Well," Alan wondered if he was being a foolish old man. An over-protective father. Don was well in his thirties, for heaven's sake. He was old enough to take care of himself. Then he remembered the sense of foreboding and forced himself to press on. "That's the thing, you see. Don was going to meet me just after twelve. I've been waiting, but there's no sign of him."

"Did you try his cell?"

"Yes." Alan sighed, patiently. "Many times. For some reason, he has it switched off. It isn't like him to stand me up without a word. I thought he might have been called away to a case. Are - are you saying you don't know where he is?"

"No." He heard the frown in her voice. "Don left here some time ago. He was headed to meet you at Echo Park."

"Megan . . ."

"Look, I'm sure there's nothing to worry about. I'll see if I can track him down. He's meeting the Assistant DA at two – maybe it got pushed forward."

She was using her best psychologist's tone, but it didn't fool Alan for a second. Don was punctiliously reliable about keeping his appointments on time. He would have called if he couldn't make it. Alan knew it in his heart of hearts. Call it father's intuition – _call it what you will_ - Alan felt a tilt in his universe. Something had happened, something was wrong.

_He had a really bad feeling about this._

"When you _do_ track him down, get him to call me." He forced his tone to stay light. "Tell him he missed his favourite, _Langers_ pastrami on rye. It was a real shame to waste it. Although, the ducks didn't seem to mind."

"Lucky ducks."

Alan heard Megan smile, but sensed her need to get him off the line.

"Megan?" He forced himself to say it. Made himself articulate the words. "Promise you'll let me know straight away if - if anything untoward turns up?"

"Of course," she hastened to reassure him. "Like I said, he's pretty busy right now. I'm sure the ADA meeting got moved forward. I'll get him to call you as soon as he can. I'll chew him out for you when I get hold of him."

"Thanks. You do that." Alan flipped off his cell phone and prayed it would be that simple.

* * *

_**FBI Offices – 3.00pm**_

It wasn't, of course. Nothing ever was. Megan's words came back to haunt her. She knew, by the time, she'd made a couple of phone-calls, something was very seriously wrong. Don had failed to keep his appointment with the ADA. He had not signed into the DA's Office on West Temple Street. No-one had seen him anywhere, since two secretaries confirmed he'd stepped out of the elevator on the lower floor of the basement. Megan waited to substantiate this and then spoke to the ADA in person. Her face was very grim indeed when she finished making the call.

"Don's supposed to take the stand on the Redondo case tomorrow afternoon. The trial will go ahead without postponement, unless we can prove a link between Redondo and Don's disappearance. The DA wants us to pull out all the stops. It's our job to find Don."

"Like we wouldn't search for him anyway." David sounded sombre. "You think Redondo got to him?"

"Let's not jump to conclusions yet." Megan couldn't help sounding despondent. She looked around at the assembled team, and decided to play it dead straight. "But, we have to be realistic here, and assume it's more than likely." She paused. "Redondo's lawyers spoke to the ADA again this morning. They re-confirmed the prosecution witnesses, and tried, in vain, to cut a last-minute deal. The whole thing hinges on Don's testimony. Without it, the prosecution has no case."

"Say we find him and it's too late?" Colby had been silent up until now.

Megan schooled her face to remain composed. "Unless we can definitely tie him to Don's d - _disappearance_, there's nothing we can do about it. Carmine Redondo walks free."

They looked at each other in unspoken dread as the inferences began to occur to them. The chances of finding Don alive and well suddenly seemed very thin. There was one other reason for keeping Don alive, but that was not very comforting either. Redondo was a card-carrying sadist. He might decide he owed Don some payback.

"That only leaves us 24 hours." Colby's face said it all. 24 hours was precious little – or it might be, pointlessly, too much. Especially when fate was against them. When the odds were not on their side. The likelihood their boss was already dead_ had_ to be pretty high.

"What about Alan and Charlie?" It was David who voiced the difficult question.

Megan gave a heavy sigh. Sometimes, she hated her job. "I promised Alan I'd let him know why Don didn't show for lunch. As for Charlie – I guess he'll be teaching today. Somebody should probably go to CalSci."

"I'll do it." Colby volunteered. "Maybe the Prof. can help us out?"

"Maybe," Megan sounded a little doubtful. "But treat him very gently, Granger, don't put any pressure on him. The suggestion has to come from Charlie himself – you know how he feels about Don. Meanwhile, I'll get back to the DA again and speak to the Assistant Director. We'd better start with the obvious. I don't want to miss anything. First stop - get down to the basement and see if Don's Suburban's still there. Let's treat the place as a possible crime scene until we know any better. They have to have snatched him from somewhere between here and Echo Park."

"Guess that's my brief." David was already up on his feet, but he paused for a second in the doorway. "Something else just occurred to me. How did they know Don's movements? Either there's a mole in the DA's office or they've been keeping close surveillance on Don."

"Good point." There was a flash of anger in Megan's voice. "I'll have the techs look into that possibility straight away. If we don't find evidence of a phone tap," her face set in forbidding lines. "and if Redondo has a pipeline to the DA's office, it should be enough to force a mistrial."

"That's good right?" There was a shade of doubt in Colby's voice. "Gives us more time to find Don."

"No, man, it's not good." David was sombre. "If Don's still alive and they have him, it'll probably sign his death warrant."

* * *

_**Present Time **_

He didn't know when he woke again. He didn't know much of anything. There was pain which throbbed and cut through his head with the electric intensity of a buzz-saw. He lay there, absolutely still. He knew better than to try moving this time. Consciousness came back very slowly, and with it, some idea of his surroundings. The scent of sage – strong and aromatic – which smelt of sunshine and long-forgotten, family outings. The cool, stony ground beneath him, which dug so unkindly into his back. He felt nascent and aware, like a newborn; tremulously alive to his environment.

_It was still so cold. He was so damned cold._ There would not be warmth anytime soon. Whoever said the desert never grew cold had obviously not been there at night. His teeth were chattering and he wished they wouldn't. The vibrations hurt his head.

_His head . . . felt like it had been smashed to pieces . . . like a water-melon hit with a hammer. _He could barely move, barely turn it. _What the fuck had happened to his head?_

There was something still dripping down the side of his face._ Fresh blood,_ he supposed, matter-of-factly. _Whoever had driven the spike through his skull had made a pretty good job of it. _He raised a shaky hand to his jaw and felt the stickiness on his fingers. _Oh yeah, this was definitely blood._ He was probably covered in it.

He tried a breath in a reflex that hurt, and discovered new pain in his ribcage. It was duller - more like an aching bruise - than the vicious fire in his head. With it, came a flicker of memory – an explanation for the trouble he was in._ Someone had attacked him in the basement. He recalled the smell of gasoline. _

_Lucidity wasn't all it was cracked up to be. He was rapidly discovering that now. The chilly reality of his situation was fast becoming very uncomfortable. He'd been on his way to Echo Park . . . he was meeting dad for lunch. Alan would be pretty pissed off with him because he hadn't called or shown-up._

_Dad. Oh, God, dad and Charlie._ They would probably be frantic by now. They didn't deserve something like this. He hoped someone was looking out for them, because they sure as hell wouldn't be okay . . .

There was somewhere else he was meant to be. _Somewhere . . . he couldn't remember._ It was hard, so hard, to think about anything, but how this would hurt dad and Charlie. He lay still, not daring to move.

_So cold. So overwhelmingly tired. _

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

**Set the Fire **

* * *

_Part Four_

_**Eppes House, Pasadena**_

Alan knew from the moment he answered the door. He could see it in Megan's eyes. Something terrible had happened. Something had happened to Don.

_Oh, God._

"Alan - " her voice was calm and sympathetic. "Please can I come inside?"

"Of course," he had forgotten his manners for a second, hardly surprising under the circumstances. He stood aside, automatically, the feeling of dread growing stronger. "I'm sorry. You have some news about Don?"

She stepped in through the doorway and placed her hand on his arm. "I'm afraid I have nothing concrete to tell you. Only that he seems to be missing. He didn't turn up at the ADA's office and we have no idea of his whereabouts."

Alan regarded her closely. There was much more to it than that. Something she wasn't telling him, he could hear it in the tone of her voice. For the briefest of seconds, she reminded him of Don. Maybe it was the FBI training. Part of the syllabus at Quantico – _Cloak and Dagger, 101_. Were they _all_ taught how to be evasive – how to keep secrets close to their chests? He had thought it was something peculiar to Don, but now he wasn't so sure. Alan felt himself getting hysterical. It was no good hiding from the truth. His mind was playing the tangent game, but it was only postponing the inevitable. Megan had some bad news for him. It wasn't about to go away.

He led her through to the dining area and they sat down at the table. For some unfathomable reason, it felt easier to talk out here. He didn't waste any time by offering her drinks he already knew she'd refuse. A sense of urgency burned inside him. It was a feeling he couldn't explain. As though the seconds were slipping away from them all, and they were part of some giant cosmic count-down.

"Has anyone tried his apartment?" Alan knew he was wasting his breath, but he felt like he had to go through the motions. "Don wouldn't just vanish off the face of the map, and we both know he'd never skip an appointment. "And what about his cell phone – doesn't it have some kind of built-in tracker thingy?"

"We've tried all his usual haunts on the off-chance. His gym, the batting cages. And yes, we've tried to get a location through the GPS tracker in his phone. We haven't had any luck there as yet; it only works if the cell's switched on. We put out a BOLO on him and hopefully, it will bring some results." Megan sounded despondent, as though she was reading through a check list. She eventually raised her eyes to his and he was shocked at how grave they were. "Alan, do you remember earlier this year, when Don went on assignment undercover?"

"Of course." His heart clenched in his chest. How could he ever forget? "He wouldn't tell us what it was about, but he was worn-out when he got back. Whatever _it_ was, it took a lot out of him. Is this something to do with that?"

Megan sighed. "Partly because of the evidence Don gathered during that operation, the DA was able to put together a case against a man called Carmine Redondo. He's a human trafficker. Very powerful, with lots of connections. His trial's taking place right now."

"And Donnie's a key witness." The penny dropped with a hollow clang. Alan looked up at her, sharply. "My God, are you saying they hurt my son in order to prevent him from testifying?"

He saw her throat move as she swallowed. "We have no direct confirmation of that. As far as we know, Don hasn't heard from Redondo's people. They haven't made any threats toward him."

Alan pushed back the chair with a scrape. He couldn't sit still any longer. All semblance of composure was gone now, as he took a turn about the room. Things were starting to clarify and the picture was becoming painfully clear. No amount of agitation or pacing was going to make this nightmare go away. His mind worked fast, trying to process the facts, but one thing stood out with startling lucidity. He didn't really care about the reason why. _All that mattered was Don was missing._

"_You_ think they took him, don't you? You think they took my son."

"It does seem likely, yes. Don's due to give evidence tomorrow."

He raked a hand through his unruly hair in unconscious mimicry of Don. A myriad of thoughts crowded in on him as he tried to get a handle on his shock. It had always been an unspoken fear whenever Don worked undercover; that one day, he'd vanish off the face of the earth and they would never know where to find him. Alan looked across at Megan in naked despair. She had not offered him any false platitudes. Part of him was grateful, even glad about that, but he wasn't stupid either. Megan was a trained psychologist and he knew what such candour meant.

"You think they'll kill him, don't you. Dear Lord, you think he's already dead." Neither statement was a question. His voice became an octave louder and filled with disbelief. He felt disembodied, and oh, so helpless. "Why wasn't he given any protection? Why couldn't anyone keep him safe? Don spends his whole life protecting other people - why couldn't you folks help _him_ when he needed it?" Alan was distraught and terrified, and Megan bore the brunt of his anger. Of course, he knew it wasn't her fault, but she was the only one here. "Don't keep me out of the loop, I beg you. Please Megan, I need total honesty here."

She got to her feet and reached for him, grasping tight hold of his hands. Her knuckles were white where they gripped onto his fingers, but in a way, the pain felt good. Alan could feel she was trembling – or maybe they both were.

"I wish I had some answers I could give you. If we'd thought, for a second, Don was in any real danger . . ." Megan paused, and took a shaky breath before continuing. "Alan, I won't insult you by being anything other than honest. Redondo has no reason for keeping Don alive." She spoke the words softly and clearly, as if she was afraid of being misunderstood. "It's becoming less likely we'll find him as each hour passes by. You know we'll do everything – _anything -_ we can, to get Don back to you and Charlie. The Director's made it our top priority. Whatever, _whatever,_ it takes. We've got the manpower, and open access, to every facility you can think of. I promise you, on my word of honour, we won't leave any stone unturned."

Alan nodded, dully, and turned away. He felt cold and empty inside. He moved across to the sideboard and picked up a photograph. He remembered the day it was taken, at Don's FBI Graduation Ceremony. His handsome son was smiling, filled with strength and quiet pride. He stood with his arm around his mother as they both looked into the camera.

"Please God," Alan found he was praying as his eyes lingered on two of his loved ones. He had lost this precious woman – his soul-mate. He couldn't lose Donnie too. "Please, Lord, don't take him from us. I don't think my heart can stand it. Don't give him back to his mother just yet. I couldn't bear to lose him as well."

* * *

_**CalSci – 4pm**_

When Charlie was teaching, he never sat down. He moved constantly, fired with energy. His passion for his subject knew no bounds and kept all his synapses burning. The lecture on Phi and the Golden Ratio had gone very well. Dan Brown had done _some_ good, he grudgingly supposed. Thanks to the wretched _Da Vinci Code,_ at least everyone knew something about it. Out of all the beauty and wonders of Fibonacci, it was usually the pine cone thing. Charlie shook his head with bemusement. _Would you credit it - the pine cone thing. _In-spite of the minor, Dan Brown niggle, Charlie was feeling bouncy. His students had been rapt and attentive and the afternoon had positively flown. There was ten minutes left until the end of class and then he was meeting up with Larry.

The _Annual Campus Race_ was almost upon them, there was a hum of excitement in the air. It was time to defend the honour of their respective faculty departments. They were planning to re-hash the blueprint for their newest go-cart project. There were still some design kinks to iron out. A little problem with the aero-dynamics. What with all the FBI work he'd been doing for Don, _tempus _had definitely been _fugiting._

Charlie found his mind was wandering, already breaking down and solving equations. It was back to the age old, interminable question, of physics_ v _applied mathematics. He gave a small sigh. For such good friends and respected colleagues, sometimes, he and Larry found it hard to agree. They were most certainly having problems this time, reaching any sort of workable conclusion.

He glanced up as the door opened, and saw Colby Granger edge into the classroom. Charlie felt his heart sink slightly, and immediately searched for Don. It would be just his luck if his brother turned up with something urgent for him to look at. But there was no sign of Don – just Colby - with a very strange expression on his face. The beauties of Phi froze on Charlie's lips as his gaze zeroed in on the agent. Something was very wrong here. _Something and everything._ Colby might be a good FBI agent, but he sure as hell wasn't much of an actor. In one infinite, terrifying moment, Charlie knew he was the bearer of bad news.

_And by the age-old laws of logic, the bad news had to be about Don. _

"Charlie?"

Colby's voice sounded very odd, as though he was speaking through a wind-tunnel.

Charlie became aware he was motionless - a host of words poised on his tongue. The Phi phenomenon crashed around him into its own perceptual illusion. There was ice in his veins and it seemed to be spreading, moving through his system like osmosis. Somehow Colby was standing beside him, in front of all his curious students. The agent looked down at him gravely and placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

"It might be an idea to dismiss your class. I think you're gonna need to sit down."

Charlie _did_ feel like he was falling. Maybe Granger was right. His legs were weak and unstable. Limp as pieces of wet spaghetti. He steadied himself on Colby's arm and forced his brain to start working. "Colby, please - please, tell me. Did something happen to Don?"

Colby guided Charlie across to a chair before turning back to face the class of students. He cleared his throat and spoke to them awkwardly, aware of the intense buzz of interest. "I think that's all for today, folks. Professor Eppes is kinda busy right now."

* * *

_**Present Time **_

When he woke again, someone was shaking him_. 'Please . . . please leave me in peace.' _The movements became more insistent until he opened his eyes. "Go 'way,"he mumbled. "Charlie, leave me be. We got at least another five minutes."

Why wouldn't they let him rest - why couldn't they just let him be? But there was no-one else out here with him. He was still alone under the sky.

It was only his own body shaking, muscles trembling, and racked with cold. Only the sound of his own teeth chattering as they beat a tattoo in his skull. There was something off with his vision. Especially, with his left eye. Everything looked blurry, kind of fuzzy around the edges, but the moonlight seemed brighter than usual.

Don groaned, and tried to move again_. 'Why was he so damned cold?' _He really wished they would come for him; his head was aching so much."Please dad,"the words were torn from his lips "Please help me. Charlie . . . dad?"

Part of him was disgusted with himself. In a way, he was glad they couldn't hear him. So much for the long-suffering, stoical, Don Eppes. He was begging and rambling like a sissy.

The pain returned with frightening suddeness - an alarming onslaught of sensation. And with it, came a wave of nausea, tightening in bands across his gut. He just about made it onto his side before his stomach began contracting. There was nothing he could do, but lie and retch into the dirt, as the endless torture went on and on.

He wondered, vaguely, where the bullet had hit him. If it was lodged somewhere inside his skull. At long last, he had proof positive. _Hell of a way to confirm it._ Don wished Charlie was here to share the joke. It had been established, he was officially thick-headed. Perhaps the bullet was blocking a blood vessel, although it still felt like he was bleeding. Something wet was trickling down the side of his face and he could taste the tang of copper in his mouth.

'_Yeah, right, he was definitely still bleeding.'_

He tried to remember some anatomy. _Don Eppes, the eminent, brain surgeon._ Too hard, when the organ in question was actually the one that got fried. Maybe it was close to his optic nerve and that was why his vision was so blurry? Or nanometres away from something equally vital, like the top of his spinal cord.

He lay immobile while the heaves subsided, and fought to regain control of his breathing. The image of a bullet rattling around inside his brain was not a particularly happy one. Don had seen enough GSW to the head to realise he was currently an anomaly. That particular word made him feel miserable and even more acutely alone. If Charlie was out here with him, he would be lecturing him on the probabilities. Anomaly was one of Charlie's favourite words, especially with regard to Don. He'd spouted it on several occasions to ram home a brutal set of odds. His bro would get out the trusty chalk and come up with some fancy equations. Curls flying and hands gesticulating. _'God, Charlie, I wish you were here.'_

But Charlie wasn't out here with him.

_There was no one else out here, but Don. _

Had they known he was alive when they dumped him?

Don thought probably not. The hit had gone down, execution style. Redondo's goons had fucked up. He wondered if they'd be back for him, but it didn't seem all that likely. He was about to become a number, a statistic. Just one more of the_ 'Missing, presumed dead.' _

No, they would not be coming back for him. They'd left him out here for the crows. No one was going to find him.

_He would die here, cold and alone. _

_**TBC**_


	5. Chapter 5

**Set the Fire **

**Author: **Lisa Paris

* * *

_**Part Five**_

_**Underground Parking Lot – FBI Buildings**_

Megan walked out of the elevator and strode across the grey concrete floor. The Parking Lot was gloomy and dispiriting, not unlike her current state of mind. At the moment, the place was thronging with people and all the detritus of a crime scene. This should be second nature to her - except that the victim was Don. It was difficult to maintain her professionalism, to remain composed and detached. It was her life, what she did for a living, but right now, it felt too close to home.

Seeing Alan had not been easy. Leaving him had been even harder. It wasn't until Colby arrived with Charlie, she'd felt able to return to the office. _Charlie._ Megan felt uneasy. His condition had really worried her. He'd been silent, almost catatonic, and clearly, deeply in shock. The only blessing – if it could be called that – was that he'd given Alan something to focus on. One look at the misery on his younger son's face and the man had swung into concerned paternal mode.

She knew how tricky it was for Alan. She'd seen the abject helplessness in his eyes. Having Charlie around to fuss over took the edge off his anxiety for Don. He was the kind of man who needed to be doing something. To be involved, somehow, in the fray. There'd even been a moment, back there at the Eppes' house, when she'd thought he might insist on accompanying her downtown. It was not the place for the Eppes right now. She was filled with a sense of foreboding. Until she found out what had happened to Don, she did not want to deal with their pain.

She ducked underneath the crime tape and made her way to David's side. He was standing adjacent to a dark stain on the ground. _Damn,_ she recognised it immediately. It was the last thing she wanted to see. Confirmation of something, which up until now, had merely been an uncomfortable theory. Her heart sank.

"Blood." It wasn't a question.

"Yes." He looked up at her grimly. "There are two distinct pools, here and here." He pointed across to a larger patch, close to the rear of the abandoned Suburban. "Looks like that might be Don's. There's a blood-trail leading away from it which indicates someone might have been dragged – I'm assuming to another, waiting vehicle. The CSA's are onto it. There's plenty for them to work with."

Megan stared down at the stain near her feet and tried to marshal her feelings. Although she'd known from the outset, the odds weren't that good, none of this was getting any easier. "Please let this belong to one of our perps." Her voice was diamond bright with anger. "Knowing Don, he fought back hard. I hope he nailed one of the bastards." She looked carefully around the concrete facility, and up into the eye of a camera. "We need the CCTV footage, asap. Hopefully, we'll get to see some faces."

"Sorry," David shook his head with regret. "I already drew a blank. These guys knew what they were doing. I checked, they took out the cameras. I'll run through anything the techs can piece together, but there won't be much left for us to see."

He held up some clear plastic evidence bags. The bleak contents spoke for themselves. Car-keys, a cell-phone and a black leather wallet. Megan knew they belonged to Don. Well, that explained why they'd failed to track him by locating a GPS signal. Another avenue had been closed to them. She could almost hear the door slam.

"Wallet's empty. They took credit cards and money. I've already put out a trace." David was trying valiantly to stay professional. "But there's one thing - Don's ID is missing. Whoever took him, took his badge."

"That's interesting." Megan's forehead creased into a frown. The psychologist part of her was piqued. "Could be, they took it as a trophy. Or maybe as evidence to prove to Redondo they actually carried out the hit." _The hit._ She faltered for a moment. The words sounded so stark, so barren. Like she was talking about a total stranger, _and yet they referred to Don._ "If we found the badge on Redondo, it would link him to Don's disappearance, but the man's not entirely stupid. Surely, he wouldn't risk everything just for the sake of a trophy?"

"Depends how badly he wanted revenge - if this was a personal vendetta. Don told me Redondo trusted him. It sounds as if the guy actually liked him. Finding out Don was an undercover Fed must have hit home pretty hard."

Megan nodded. "David, I think you may have a point. If that's so, it gives us a little hope. Redondo might have ordered the snatch with the intention of killing Don himself. Either that, or he would want Don to know who's responsible for pulling the trigger. The whole thing fits his profile – all the crappy, macho arrogance. The man gets his kicks from inflicting pain. He's a monster, a first class sadist. If he feels rejected and betrayed by Don, then this isn't _just_ about the court case. It's deeper, far more personal. Redondo's acting out of revenge." She paused. "Anything from our surveillance guys yet?"

"Redondo hasn't moved from his house except to go to and from the courtroom. The only ones, in or out, are his lawyers, apart from Miller and Lomax. I haven't looked at the call-log in detail yet, but there's been no obvious reference to Don."

"There wouldn't be." She shook her head. "The man's too smart for that."

"It looks like Agent Eppes lost his gun." One of the Crime Scene techs. approached them. "We found it under the SUV, and you might want to take a look at this. Careful – the needle isn't capped." He gave Megan an evidence bag containing a needle and syringe. Whatever the pharmaceutical contents were, they clearly hadn't been used. The CSA looked at her grimly, and anticipated her next question. "I'm guessing some sort of sedative or narcotic. It was underneath the SUV too."

The tightness increased in Megan's chest. She was building an uneasy picture. Whoever had ambushed Don down here, it was patently clear he'd fought back. _And hard._ She had no doubt the needle had been meant for him, but somehow, it had been lost during the struggle. The thought didn't give her much comfort. It only made the blood stains more worrying.

"Looks like the plan was to drug him." David's voice was disturbed. "To snatch him and take him someplace else. Whoever took him, wanted him alive."

"Yes," Megan tried her best to stay logical. "Trouble was, Don fought back."

Her eyes strayed across to the rust-coloured stains which seemed to mock them from the concrete. _It was easy to guess what happened next when Don messed-up the original plan._ It was not a small amount of blood. There was nothing modest about it. Someone had bled out copiously onto the basement floor.

"So they shot him here instead?"

"We don't know that for sure yet. Until we do, it's pure speculation." Megan turned her attention back to the Crime Scene tech. They had to stay focused and professional. Don was counting on them - _he was counting on her_ - to make some sense out of this. "I want everything you can give me, as soon as you can. Especially on the blood types. Fingerprints, DNA records, any evidence of ballistics. We're racing against the clock here if we want to find Agent Eppes alive." Her voice hitched for a second on a husky note. It was the first time her iron control had failed her. She pulled herself together just as quickly. _There was no time for personal heartache yet._ "David," she reached across and touched him on the arm. "None of this gets back to Alan or Charlie. There's no point upsetting them until we have something concrete. It stays strictly need to know."

Sinclair nodded unhappily at her. _Strictly need to know._ He knew it was probably cowardly, but he was conscious of enormous relief. It was hard enough dealing with his own sense of grief, let alone that of Don's family.

* * *

_**Carmine Redondo's House – 6pm**_

"It's done." Lomax walked into the study and sat down in a chair with a nod. "I just received the call from my man. Our little problem's been fixed."

Redondo looked up from his desk with a scowl. "This is not what I'm hearing on the grapevine, Bobby. Those clowns of yours really messed things up. When I give you an order, I want it carried out. So much for _without a trace_."

"It didn't go down the way we planned it. They had to use some improvisation." Lomax raised a querying eyebrow, and looked uneasily around him. "Is it okay to talk in here?"

"Yeah, I had it swept - installed some state of the art, anti-surveillance and jamming equipment. The bastards have tapped the phone lines. They've even hacked into my computer. I can't speak for the rest of the house, but we're safe enough in this room. What the fuck happened to quick and clean? I don't pay you to hire amateurs."

"They had a little more trouble than we anticipated. Eppes put up one hell of a fight. Lombardi had to do it there and then. There was a chance they might get interrupted."

"They're sure he's dead?" Redondo frowned. "I'm not liking the sound of this."

"Head shot." Lomax nodded. "They dumped him in the pre-arranged place. I checked, and there's blasting tomorrow afternoon. They already set the automatic detonators so there's no chance of anyone finding the body. Every last trace of Agent Eppes is about to go out with a bang."

Redondo was still frowning. "According to my source on the inside, the FBI's already looking for him. Because your two idiots fucked things up, they know he was the victim of a hit. They're gonna be knocking straight on my door, I don't want any loose endings. I'd like you to see to it, Bobby. Where's that idiot, Lombardi now?"

The implication was crystal clear and Lomax nodded slowly. "I'll see it gets taken care of. In-fact, I'll do it myself tonight."

He knew when he was being dismissed and quickly vacated the room. Even though Eppes had been removed from the picture, Carmine was clearly still antsy. Lomax rubbed his hands together. He knew a second of malicious satisfaction. This would teach the old faggot a lesson. Teach him to be a little more careful when it came to a pretty face. Redondo had a penchant for indiscretion when it came to getting what he wanted. And although the Fed had been older than his usual prey, he had certainly wanted Special Agent Eppes. He always did have a thing for the boys, and this one had almost led to his downfall. Oh yeah, there was no doubt about it. He'd most definitely had a_ thing_ for Agent Eppes.

Lomax grimaced to himself as he walked out of the door. It was a _thing_ which had almost fucked it all up. Redondo's sexual fetishes had nearly ruined their little operation. He was dangerous, a serious weakness. His predilections had turned into obsession and were placing them all in jeopardy.

It was time to put a stop to it. Time to do something about it. Carmine was becoming a liability. The man was running past his sell-by date. But sometimes fate had a curious way of throwing up opportunities. Lomax was by no means stupid. And thanks to a bit of quick thinking, he might be able to salvage something out of this.

* * *

Redondo got up out of his chair and paced across to the window. He felt like a caged tiger, a prisoner in his own house. When he'd heard the good news about Don Eppes, it had thrown him a small crumb of comfort. But until the trial was over and done with, he wouldn't be able to relax.

_Eppes._

A head shot, that idiot Lomax had said. Effective enough, he knew by experience. There should be no room for error. It was efficient, quick and clean. There was little or no chance of walking away with a piece of lead in your skull.

_It was not enough,_ he scowled, suddenly. All over and done with in an instant. In a way, it was almost too merciful. Far _too_ quick and clean for Agent Eppes. The man deserved some personal attention and he would have been happy to provide it. He would take things slowly, _artistically_. He'd always been handy with a knife. Redondo closed his eyes with a shiver of ecstasy, and imagined Eppes chained up in front of him. Eppes would cry out for mercy - would beg to be allowed to die.

As fantasies went, it was pleasing. He'd imagined it so many times. Eppes had been so pretty, in a Jewish sort of fashion, all dark-eyed and soulful sensitivity. The tautly muscled, pale skin . . . the surprising pout of his lips. But Eppes had made it clear he wasn't interested. That his sexuality swung in more conventional ways. _Too bad._ A sliver of hatred sliced through his gut. Redondo pictured the knife blade. It would make such devastating patterns on that beautiful, milk-white flesh.

Eppes had known for certain, just how much Carmine wanted him. He had used it, flaunted his power. It made his act of betrayal even worse.

For the time being, Eppes was crow-bait. Tomorrow, he would be dust. Any last traces of Special Agent Eppes would end up sold in bags of cement mix. The pretty pale flesh would fill up the gaps in the walls of somebody's house.

Redondo smiled in cold satisfaction. Eppes deserved everything he got. Tomorrow, all his troubles would be over.

_Such a waste of that beautiful skin._

_**TBC**_


	6. Chapter 6

**Set the Fire **

* * *

**_Part Six_**

_**Present Time . . .**_

The moon was round and beautiful like a big bright hole in the sky. It sailed serenely overhead, coolly immune to his predicament. Don lay on his back and looked up at it through the haze of red in his eyes. He'd been drifting in and out of things for so long now, swimming up from a great depth, but every time he reached the surface, he was dragged down under again.

The cold was his worse misery. Intractable and penetrating. Don felt as if he'd been shrouded in a blanket of frozen fog. It neither offered nor gave him any mercy, just ate straight through to his bone marrow. If he didn't know any better, he could have sworn there was a frost on the ground. It was worse than the aching throb in his chest or the trenchant pain in his head. Almost as bad as the insidious fear which stole through his veins like ice.

_Oh, God, when will they come? When will they come and get me? _He felt his eyes clouding over again as the moon began to mist around the edges. _Pretty moon._ It was pretty, in a surreal kind of way. Like a gauzy, silver ghost moon. Sort of like it had been air-brushed. There was a poem - some poem he remembered from High School. _Something about trailing clouds of glory . . ._

Or maybe he was thinking of something else. Yeah, that was it, he was getting muddled up. _. . . the moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas . . ._

_No. _

Don fought the darkness as hard as he could. He had to - _he must stay awake._ If he kept slipping back into the shadows, then at some stage, they would claim him forever. But it was so much easier said than done. It was hard – so hard to hold on. Part of him was tempted to give into the cold and slide underneath the surface forever. He had a better idea of his surroundings now but it didn't afford him much comfort. There was no glow of artificial lighting or distant sound of a car. Wherever he was, it was pretty remote. There wasn't a soul around. He was miles from any chance of help. Somewhere, in the middle of nowhere.

_Right – that stood to reason._

Redondo wouldn't dump him anywhere he was likely to be found.

He turned his head with a grunt of pain and looked across to his right. The ground seemed to rise up abruptly and sheer into a craggy wall. He could barely make out the shadowy hollows of a rock-face a few hundred yards away from him. He was lying somewhere at the base of it, sprawled on a bed of loose shale. There was gravel and a few fallen boulders. A half-screening bank of sagebrush. Other than that, there was nothing. Just him, the moon, and the cold ground.

_Maybe they had thrown him over a cliff?_

"Can you hear me – can anyone hear me? Help me, I need help here!"

Even though he knew it was futile, Don tried shouting for help. He called and called until his throat was hoarse and the useless words rang in his head. His cries bounced back off the cliff-face, tormenting him with their lonely echo. It was the only sound of a human voice he was likely to hear tonight.

His mind began to play tricks on him, and that scared him more than anything. He wondered how much damage the bullet had done, and whether or not it would get worse. Chances were, it had messed up his brain. He was having hallucinations.

'_Uh-oh, this couldn't be a good sign?'_

He was lying in front of a roaring log fire. The flames were high and radiant bright. Warm, he was warm, and wrapped in blankets. _Oh, God, he must be in heaven._ He was propped like a king, on pillows and cushions, to support his poor, aching muscles. Cocooned and protected in a nest of heat to banish the implacable cold. Safe - he was safe and sound now. He was surrounded by comfort and love. Dad and Charlie were there, right beside him, both of them happy to see him. _Why weren't they angry?_ Don didn't understand. They ought to be really pissed off with him. Pissed off and disappointed, because he'd been dumb enough to get caught.

Reality was the bitter ground. The rocky bite of the desert beneath him. It was pain in his head and shortness of breath and the knowledge he was shaking with fever. _Hot and cold._ Cold and hot. _Was it possible to be both things at once? _

_Worse._ Don knew he was getting much worse. He'd be lucky to survive until morning.

Don shivered and shook, he couldn't help it. His muscles jerked and trembled involuntarily. His skull felt like it was splitting open, each movement caused an earthquake in his head. Much more of this and he was out of it. He knew he couldn't stay awake. Dear God, he was _so _gonna lose it again. On second thoughts, he preferred the hallucinations.

He managed to reach down as far as his belt. It was ridiculous how much effort it cost him. His cell was gone – he'd guessed it would be – but confirming it was still pretty scary. It was time to face the truth. He was stranded out here. Wherever in hell, _here _was. No one was going to locate him by using the GPS tracker. Don fought hard to keep it together. The thought was terrifying. Dread, and a near sense of panic, washed over him in alternate waves.

He was freezing cold and his head hurt.

He had never felt so alone.

_So, what now? _By now, his team would know he was missing, and Redondo would be the obvious suspect. If the crime scene in the parking lot was anything to go by, they probably believed he was dead. A wave of despair crashed over him, and with it, a fresh bout of pain. He was sick, so dizzy and disorientated – barely able to keep thinking straight.

He hoped Megan hadn't spoken to Alan or Charlie but knew it was highly unlikely. It was her duty, however unpleasant, to break the bad news to dad. _Dad. _Don knew there was something he ought to recall. It had something to do with dad._ Echo Park._ That's right . . . he'd remembered it earlier, so why had he forgotten it again?

What the hell was happening to him? To his mind, to the fabric of his brain? His memory was scrambled like broken eggs and only fragments of eggshell remained.

His family would be freaking out. Charlie would be catatonic_. Charlie, oh God, Charlie. _Don shifted restlessly in-spite of the pain and made another futile effort to move. But he couldn't even raise his head, let alone push himself up off the ground. _Useless_. He couldn't do much of anything, except lie here, and wait to die.

_Please dad, watch Charlie for me. Don't let him go out to the garage. I'm so sorry I won't be there for you. Don't lose him to the P thing like before._

The words were stuck on repeat cycle tumbling around in his head. _'Please dad, watch Charlie for me,'_ they reoccurred, over and over. Don whispered the words like a mantra, until they worked like a form of hypnosis. Until the relentless cold and misery dragged him under again.

* * *

_**FBI Offices – 8pm**_

Megan stared down at the buff coloured file and read through the salient points again. Depending on your point of view, the news was both good and bad. She really had to hand it to the CSA techs. They had given Don's case top priority. The forensics team must have pushed themselves pretty hard to get the report to her so quickly. The only thing she didn't have back yet was the result of the DNA sampling. It was a fairly convoluted procedure and was going to take several more hours. Even then, there was no guarantee of results. It might turn up a big fat blank. Unless they scored a match on the CODIS data-base, there was no chance of a formal identification.

The blood stains showed two different groupings. Apparently, the sample of _O Rhesus+_ had been combined with copious amounts of nasal mucus. Megan felt a stab of malicious satisfaction. _Strike one, for Special Agent Eppes. _Don had indeed fought hard for his life and broken the nose of one of his attackers. The next part wasn't quite so encouraging. Megan sobered as she read the next sentence. Most of the blood was _A Rhesus+._ She had no doubt it was probably Don's.

_They'd all attended a recent blood-drive and Don had been strangely reluctant. When he'd almost passed out at the sight of a needle, the rest of his team found out why. The incident had caused much hilarity which Don had accepted with good grace, reminding them all with the hint of a smile, he still had to write their annual reviews. Afterwards, when they'd discussed which blood group they belonged to, turned out Don had been the only A+._

Megan gave herself a mental shake, aware she was thinking in the past tense. She had to stay strong and focused – for Don and the rest of the team._ 'Do your job, Agent Reeves,' _she admonished herself, appalled to find her eyes had filled with tears. In light of the litany of circumstances, it was hard to believe Don was still alive.

No fingerprints, no ballistics. It had not been a _through and through_ shooting. But there _was _a conclusive, blood splatter pattern, which confirmed a bullet had been fired at close range.

_A bullet had been fired at close range. Get a grip on yourself, Reeves._

Trace evidence was barely more hopeful. There were hairs and some fine blue fibres. Her mind wandered back to this morning, and the godamned tears threatened again. Don had been wearing a dark blue jacket and she'd thought he looked pretty good in it. She remembered his smile and the banter they'd shared as he'd made his way out of the door.

Trouble was, it was the parking lot. Dozens of people and as many vehicles passed through the facility every day. There was a chance both the hairs and fibres might have been there for some time. They had nothing to prove they came from either Don's jacket or the head of one of his attackers. At least, not until they had the results of the DNA test. Maybe then, they could match the owner of the hair to the O rhesus+ bloodstain.

A particular finding caught her eye. The blood-stained print of a running shoe. As well as Don's blood on the ridges of the sole, they'd found evidence of various other substances. There were some very fine mineral particles of calcite and calcium carbonate. Both were natural constituents of limestone, the main ingredient of cement. Megan frowned – perhaps one of the men they were looking for worked in the construction industry. She sighed and pushed her hair back out of her eyes. _God, she really needed some caffiene._ Could be the construction industry, or maybe a building site. Then again, it might be a DIY store, or it might mean nothing at all.

The words needle and haystack came to mind.

Even if she acknowledged the worse case scenario and accepted that Don had died– finding his body wasn't going to be easy. Almost impossible, in-fact. The DA would never issue a warrant on the basis of what they knew now. The case against Redondo was already fragile enough. He couldn't risk jeopardising it. Besides, Redondo owned a large portfolio. He was part owner of many more businesses. On the surface most of them seemed legitimate. It would take too much time and manpower.

_Hard fact, Don could be anywhere._

The one, bright spark in the forensics report, _if she could bring herself to call it that,_ was a positive tire impression. There were further, tiny traces of type A+ blood, and more particles of cement-grade limestone. The tire treads were a positive match to a 2001 Ford Econoline. Megan had no doubt the vehicle was stolen, chances were, they would find it dumped somewhere. The mineral traces might be totally irrelevant, but at the moment, she would take any leads at all. Anything which might help guide them to Don. That could give his family some closure.

"Megan?"

_Oh damn,_ and talking of Don's family - here was one of them, singular. Megan looked across to the doorway and nearly dropped the report in surprise. "Charlie, what are you doing here?" She tried to keep her voice even. The last time she'd seen him back at the Eppes house, he'd been white and unfocused, almost rigid with shock.

He gestured to the folder. "David said you'd received the forensics report back on Don?" He looked at her with pleading eyes. "I'd like to see it. Megan, please?"

"Are you sure you're up to this, Charlie?"

She reached out and placed a sympathetic hand on his arm, unsurprised when he pulled away. When it came to touch and human contact, he was the tactile opposite of Don. For all his own emotional stand-offishness, Don liked to reach out to other people. A touch of the hand, a casual arm draped here . . . he did it almost without thinking. Perhaps it was his way of seeking human contact. Megan found herself smiling at Charlie. She hadn't really expected to see him here, but she was very relieved he was. If anyone could help them locate Don, she had implicit faith in Charlie's abilities. She hesitated over the forensics report, well aware of her earlier words to David, but there was something determined in Charlie's expression which erased any last seed of doubt.

"I – I have to do this, however bad it may be. I have to help you find Don." It was as if Charlie could sense her uncertainty. He straightened his shoulders and looked her squarely in the eye. "He's out there somewhere . . . he needs me. And I_ need_ to stay strong."

Megan gave him a look of approval and handed over the report. Whatever the outcome, _good or bad_, doing this would help Charlie emotionally. She knew a little about what had happened before, when Margaret Eppes had been dying of cancer. Don had told her a few small snippets without betraying his brother too much. She wasn't trained in psychology for nothing; she spent half her life reading between lines. It hadn't taken her long to pick-up on Don's unspoken, but constant anxiety, regarding Charlie's fragile state of mental health.

_'Please God, let this be the right decision,'_ she thought, _'I hope things have changed since then.'_ Perhaps the passage of time, and Charlie's subsequent work with the Bureau, had given him a tougher inner-core.

She picked up another file from her desk. "You're going to need this one too. It's everything we have on Carmine Redondo, including Don's undercover report."

"Thank you," Charlie's voice was husky and he sounded on the verge of tears, but when he took the file from her, his hand was surprisingly steady. "Is there anything else, any other news? No one's seen him or found a - a body?"

"No, Charlie." She spoke to him gently. "This is all we have at the moment. If anything happens, anything at all, I promise I'll keep you up to speed. David and Colby have gone to interview Redondo, but I'm not expecting any revelations. At the moment, we have nothing but uncanny coincidence to link him to Don's disappearance."

"There's no such thing as _uncanny coincidence."_ A healthy spark of anger emanated from Charlie and Megan was glad to see it. "It doesn't exist in this case. More like firm probability. It's not by happenstance or some quirk of unlucky chance that Don goes missing the day before his testimony."

"Hope I'm not interrupting anything?" Alan peered around the door. He stared unrepentantly across at Megan for a second, before sidling into the bullpen. "I know. There's no need to say it, but neither one of us could stay at home. Charlie and I kind of figured we'd be better off here for a while. I can sort out the catering, some sandwiches, a pot of hot coffee. Can't have the team going hungry - while Charlie helps you find Don."

"Alan," Megan couldn't help smiling a little. She knew she should kick both their asses back home in-case some bad news came in. _Food _- it was the Alan Eppes miracle cure for whichever malady ailed you. There was nothing so terrible or downright bad that couldn't be fixed with a good meal. _Well, not this time._ She looked at him softly – _sadly_ - she felt like her heart was breaking. There were a million and one horrible reasons why Don's family shouldn't be here.

"Please," there was a note of desperation in his tone. "I know it's probably against regulations, against standard FBI procedure. But I can't just kick my heels back at the house. I want to be on the spot when you find him. I have a feeling Don – _Donnie's_ going to need us."

"Sandwiches sound good." Megan took his arm, and nodded her head, as she steered him towards the kitchen. She knew when she was beaten. Better give in with good grace. This wasn't_ just_ another case. It was Don, _her best friend_, _Don._ And if it meant breaking protocol to help out his family, then just for once, protocol be hanged.

She glanced back over her shoulder. Charlie opened the forensics file. He was going to need some personal space when he'd finished reading the contents. They were _all_ going to need some support and space, whatever the eventual outcome.

_'How the hell were they going to get through this?' _Megan was damned if she knew. She'd just broken the biggest rule in the book, and she hoped she wasn't going to regret it.

**TBC**


	7. Chapter 7

**Set the Fire **

* * *

_**Part Seven**_

_**Carmine Redondo's House – 8pm**_

David looked at the two men across the desk through a blood-red mist of anger. There was something, a primal part of him, which wanted to tear them into tiny pieces. None of his rage was visible, of course, he was far too well-trained for that. His demeanour was cool and politely detached – he'd modelled himself on the best. David tried not to think too hard about his boss; _where he was, what these bastards had done to him._ He was grimly realistic, like Megan, and pretty sure Don was dead.

_Maybe he'd been in this game too long? Yeah right, he was still in his late twenties. He was getting far too cynical, too jaded. Too aware of man's inhumanity to man._

It was hard enough dealing with Granger right now. His partner reminded him of Tigger. The energetic and bouncing tiger of of A A Milne and Winnie the Poo fame. He was filled with an unflagging optimism, that somehow, Don was still alive. David wished he could buy into it, he really did, but the blood in the parking lot haunted him. Optimism was all very well – but _hope_ was just a four-letter word.

David sighed inaudibly and studied Carmine Redondo. The man stared calmly back at him with a malicious gleam in his eyes. What was it Don had called him?

_One hundred per cent slime._

David read the confirmation on Redondo's face and absolutely agreed. The bastard was enjoying this and he'd clearly been expecting their call. The man was sat behind his desk like a fleshy overweight spider, so by the simple laws of deduction, did that make him and Colby the flies? David had a sudden, disconcerting vision, of Redondo spinning a web. The man had concocted a lethal trap and Don was caught up in the middle of it.

_Except that Don was almost certainly dead._

As some sort of lucky coincidence would have it, Redondo had been ensconced with his lawyer when they arrived – so-called going over the trial transcripts from the previous day in court. _Of course he was, _David thought, cynically. The man didn't miss a trick. They'd probably spent the whole day together. It was the perfect alibi.

"Can you confirm whether you've left this house at any point during the day?"

David kept his voice even and impassive. He already knew the answer to the question because of the surveillance tapes. The only real point of this interview was to rattle Redondo's cage. To let him know they were looking for Don; that they knew what had probably happened. David wanted to see the bastard squirm. For Redondo to realise they were onto him. He was going to pay big time for killing Don, no way was he getting away with it. They would worry this thing like a dog with a bone. They were never going to let it alone.

'_Not ever,' _thought David, fiercely. He looked Redondo straight in the eye and a silent message relayed between them. No matter how powerful or clever he thought he was, the meaning was plain to see.

Redondo smiled back at him, laconically. "Take a look at the tapes, Agent Sinclair. You can verify my words with your surveillance operatives. I'm sure they'll be happy to tell you. I've hardly moved from this office. I've been here in the house all day."

David continued to stare him out, recognising this for what it was. The man was on a fishing expedition, but he wouldn't get any joy here. He was not about to confirm or deny Redondo's assertion of surveillance. "Are there any physical witnesses who can corroborate this?"

"What's this all about, Agent Sinclair?" The lawyer muscled in aggressively. "As you know, we're currently in the middle of a court case. In the interests of mutual cooperation, Mister Redondo has agreed to see you, but he's not obliged to answer any of your questions. None of this goes on the record."

Redondo waved his hand airily. He looked like he was having fun.

"It's all right, I'll answer the question." He paused and smiled directly at David. "After all, I've got nothing_ left_ to hide."

The red mist had descended again and a vein jumped in David's forehead. _'Nothing left to hide . . .'_ the inference was clear. Nothing left, now he'd hidden Don.

It took Colby a second longer, and then he shifted forward in sudden anger. "Just what do you mean by that, Redondo? Care to fill us in on the blanks? What did you have to hide before, and where the hell is _it_ now?"

Redondo laughed out loud with amusement and looked across at his lawyer. "These _'gentlemen,'_ appear to be rather upset. I think they might have mislaid something."

"That does it - where is he?" Colby leaned aggressively over the desk, his muscles bunching under his jacket. "You do know that killing a law enforcement office is punishable by the death penalty? At the very least, life imprisonment, or a mandatory thirty years behind bars. And make no mistake, Redondo, this one's not going away."

"That's enough," the lawyer got to his feet. "Consider this conversation terminated. In answer to your earlier question, my client has been here all day long. A fact which I, myself, can confirm, along with plenty of other witness's. If you want corroboration of this, I suggest you take a look at your own surveillance tapes." He looked across at them challengingly, as if daring them to make a denial. "Mister Redondo's spoken with you out of courtesy, but he won't be responding to any more of your wild accusations or threats. If you came here to charge him with something, then do it. You'd better hope you have a damned good case."

Job done. It was time to go. David got to his feet. The cards had been laid on the table, and this _conversation_ was indeed over. David put a hand on Colby's shoulder as they moved across the room. He could feel the other agent's pent-up anger radiating through the fabric of his suit. He sympathised completely. It was hard to keep his own feelings in check. To suppress a primal urge to leap over the desk and beat the truth out of Redondo.

Over the course of his FBI service, he'd worked under several different team leaders. They'd run the whole gamut of abilities, from total jackass, to really quite excellent. He was in no doubt where Don Eppes featured on the _Sinclair Scale _of one to ten. The man was first-rate at what he did. A most exceptional boss. Don was smart and intuitive. He had authority without keeping his distance. More then this, David liked and admired him. He felt honoured to call him friend.

"You forgot to mention witness tampering." Might as well throw in a parting shot. "Add another twenty years on top, if physical force was used." He turned at the door, still deceptively meek, as he paraphrased Redondo's flippancy. "You see, it's really pissed us off to _mislay_ this particular_ something_, and we're not gonna let up searching until we find out where _it_ is." He allowed his voice to drop lower still, with an edge as sharp as a knife. "It means a hell of a lot to us, so you'd better hope we find it real soon. Safe and well, and all in one piece. _Or whoever took it will wish they'd never been born."_

* * *

_**Present Time**_

Cold. There was no escaping it. It gnawed right through to his bones. His head ached and his muscles had no strength in them_. 'Why didn't anyone come?'_

The night seemed alive with moving shapes – shifting with curling shadows. Their contours were obscure and confusing, were they rocks or worse, were they ghosts? He wondered if they meant him any harm. Too bad for him, if they did. He wasn't going anywhere. It was getting hard to lift his little finger. He'd always prided himself on his physical condition, but a two year old could take him right now.

Don let himself drift through a nightmarish world populated with faces and memories. His vision was dark-edged and wavering, even the moon was less bright. He leaned his head back against the iron-hard ground and shut his eyes against the pin-wheel of sky. _Relief – it gave him a little relief._ It made him nauseaus to keep them open. His stomach lurched and dipped like a matchwood boat tossed out to sea by a storm.

Pain was his constant companion. It pounded away at his skull. But Don didn't mind the pain so much – _at least it meant he was alive._

The freezing night was his bitterest enemy. He would never be warm again. There was even ice in the pit of his belly. Everywhere, dimness and cold. _No good. This was so not good._ He must be dangerously close to hypothermia. If the bullet in his head didn't kill him, what were the odds on him surviving through the night?

_If he could just think a little more clearly. If he could even move somewhere more sheltered. _

Futile. Don knew it was futile. He still couldn't lift his head._ Someone, please come and help me._

There was no one apart from the waiting shadows. He called weakly, but nobody came. Instinct told him, just as before, there was no-one for miles around. Try. _He had to give it one more try._ He couldn't just give up and die here. He had to do it for dad's sake. For Charlie. How could he leave them alone?

_Come on, Eppes, you can't give up on them. You're the strong one. You have to make it._

Don inched a shaky hand under his hip and endeavoured to push himself forward. He could feel blood pounding like a drum in his heart, but it didn't seem to reach as far as his head. There was a jagged explosion behind his eyes, a searing sensation of agony. The pain hurt like a bitch, it was so severe, that for a moment he spun straight down to hell. A pulse-rate beat in his temples, and he lay like a stranded starfish. He gave a half-sob and his head rolled backwards. Any further attempt at moving abandoned.

_Dear God,_ Don experienced a moment of pure despair._ He was worse. He was going to die._

"_Hold on." _The voice sounded strangely like Charlie's, but it came from inside his own head._ "Just hold on, Don, we're coming to find you. Promise you'll hang on a little longer."_

"Charlie?"

He spoke the name out loud, but the frailness of his voice merely mocked him. There was nothing, and no one to hear him call out, but the impassive stars overhead. Don wanted to promise, he really did, but he hated to break his word to Charlie.

The earth pitched and rolled beneath him. The sky was like a vortex above. Don clung on desperately, for all he was worth, but the shadowy ghosts crept ever closer. In his fevered imagination, he knew they were coming for him. They were mocking him, waiting for him. It was simply a question of time. There wasn't any hurry to claim him, and no one to stop them when they did. They were creeping – creeping closer. Leering at him from behind the rocks. Don knew it was inevitable. There was no escaping their intent.

He was totally at their mercy.

_They had the rest of the long, cold night._

* * *

_**FBI Offices – Present Time (1am)**_

Charlie woke-up with an abrupt jerk. His heart was racing in terror. He'd been dreaming in very odd fragments, all of them about Don. He shivered and looked around him, but he was still alone in the bullpen. For some reason, the room temperature seemed to have dropped, and he was suddenly freezing cold.

_How could he have fallen asleep?_ Charlie wrapped his arms around his chest in a futile effort to keep warm. Don was lost, relying on him, and what had _he_ done? He'd taken a nap.

_Cold._ Why did he feel so cold? Charlie couldn't understand it. Maybe he was suffering from some kind of psychological shock. Under the circumstances, it was not all that unlikely. And when was the last time he'd eaten? He hadn't touched a single mouthful of dad's forlorn plate of sandwiches. His last meal must have been breakfast. It was too many hours ago. No wonder he felt like a block of ice - his blood sugar had to be pretty low.

_Don. Oh, God, Don._

Charlie knew he was capable of sailing through life missing out on the interpersonal nuances. With his head up high in the cerebral clouds, he sometimes missed things right under his nose. But not this time. Not in this case. Not when it involved his brother. Right now, it was more than crystal clear that nearly everyone assumed Don was dead.

The signs were pretty obvious all around him. He could read them in the sympathetic faces. The hushed voices out in the main offices which lowered every time he walked by. People were being very kind, but their glances never quite met his eyes. It was hard to misinterpret Colby's desperate optimism. Harder still, ignoring Megan's carefully masked grief. Charlie was suddenly, horribly frightened. It was patent they all thought Don had died.

If they were working on the assumption he was already dead, then Don needed Charlie all the more. He needed someone to fight for him, to keep the faith he was still out there. Charlie believed in the obdurate, Don Eppes streak, which was such an intrinsic part of his character. T_he streak which might just beat the odds and keep his brother alive._ It was nothing to do with mystical feelings or any kind of psychic phenomena. It was simply to do with Don himself and Charlie's faith in his inherent strength.

Charlie looked down at the open files in front of him. He needed to get back to work. Thinking kept him blessedly focused and the numbers helped clear his head. Don always used to tease him that the math was like cerebral valium. That Charlie would reach for the chalkboard when most men would reach for a beer. The memory made him falter. The forensics report had made bitter reading. The list of facts was impartially blunt. He was thankful to Megan for steering dad away from the bullpen while he digested the gist of the account.

Whoever had snatched Don, had first tried to drug him, but his brother had fought back hard.

_Way to go, big brother, but maybe you shouldn't have. When you foiled that idea, they were forced to hurt you instead. _

He shouldn't have expected anything else. He might have known Don wouldn't go down without a fight. Not Don, his big tough brother, who had battled against adversity all his life. Years ago, when they were children, Charlie'd always thought Don was invincible. His brother was a local hero, the sporting star of the school. No one had messed with the great Don Eppes, not if they valued their reputation.

_But not now. Oh, no, not any more._

Those naïve perceptions had altered. Now he_ really_ understood what Don did for a living, they'd collapsed like a house of cards. Charlie had seen the dangers, and calculated all the probabilities. He knew the hazards Don faced as a result of his job, to make the world a safer place to live in. His brother was still a hero, but he certainly wasn't invincible. In-fact, he was frighteningly fragile, and always, terrifyingly, at risk.

_Where is he? Is he hurt, is he frightened? Does he even know we're looking for him yet?_

Charlie frowned and pushed his emotions away. He had to try and stay objective. He was no use to Don if he caved in now, _if he sought refuge back in his bubble._ He forced himself to picture the scene in the basement using the forensics evidence. It didn't take much visualisation; the facts pretty much spoke for themselves. Don had stepped out of the elevator and walked across to his SUV. His assailants were already waiting for him which confirmed they must have access to his movements. When Don reached the car, they jumped him. It looked like one of them had grabbed him from behind. _A choke hold,_ Charlie reasoned, _to immobilise him and cut off his air._

They'd planned the attack to be quick and easy. To inject Don and take him alive. The syringe had contained a hefty mixture of ketamine and GHB (_ hydroxybutyric acid_) enough to render a man of Don's size and weight, unconscious for approximately two hours. His brother would have vanished off the face of the earth and no one would have been any the wiser.

Charlie got to his feet, and approached the white board. He scribbled down some quick calculations. The timing was all very interesting. It could help narrow down the radius and confine their field of search. It was clear they'd hoped to keep Don unconscious for the whole of their intended journey. It made a kind of horrible sense. They'd obviously wanted him alive. Charlie shivered, he couldn't help it. The math valium wasn't helping. Judging by what Megan had told him, and the crime file he'd just finished reading, when Redondo or one of his henchmen actually pulled the trigger, the message would be hammered home in triplicate. He was vicious enough to want Don awake.

Charlie moved across to the map of LA and drew a red circle upon it. His mind was now safely in its element as he worked out a simple equation. _The average speed of a Ford Econoline, travelling through a reasonably, built-up area. They would have stuck carefully to the speed limit to avoid drawing any attention. A two hour maximum timeline before reaching their destination._ The information provided a geographical radius originating from the parking lot. It wasn't much, but it was a beginning. An actuality they could start working from.

Don had foiled all their careful planning by choosing to fight back. Trust Don to do things the hard way, it was the only way his brother knew how. Charlie closed his eyes again and picked-up the thread where he'd left off. He needed to picture what had happened. However painful or difficult it might be, he had to get inside Don's head. He forced himself to envisage his brother struggling for life in a choke-hold. Don had probably used his elbow to get out of it, which would explain Mister _O Rhesus positive's _broken nose. At this point, the attacker must have dropped the syringe which had rolled away under Don's car.

It was only now things became hazy. Only now, _Charlie_ battled for control. Don would have tried to draw his Glock. Fear, he sensed fear and desperation. But a second man must have taken him down when he was weak and still short of air. Charlie didn't know what they'd done to him, but somehow, Don had lost his gun.

_Blood - A Rhesus positive blood._

It was Charlie's struggle as much as Don's. He felt as though he were drowning. The forensics report seemed to haunt him. His brother . . . it was all about Don. The sticky pool of blood on the ground. The words of the reporting CSA: _'A blood splatter pattern, consistent with the high velocity impact of a single gunshot fired at close range into human tissue. No evidence of exit wound splatter. No available ballistics evidence to confirm the calibre of weapon fired.'_

There was only one possible conclusion. They had shot him_. They had shot Don. _

Charlie clung onto the side of Don's desk. It gave him some meagre comfort. It was as though he could feel his brother's presence, encouraging him, and cheering him on. The shooting down in the parking lot had changed the whole dimension of the case. It had now become a kidnap, and possible murder, with evidence that could be traced back to Redondo. Charlie stared down at the type-written words. He suddenly felt very sick. It was clear Redondo had originally planned things so nothing could be pieced back to him. In his arrogance, the man had undoubtedly believed he could get away with hurting Don. Well, Charlie intended to show him that nothing was set in stone.

_Set in stone. _Charlie's brow crinkled, thoughtfully. He spoke the words out loud. "Nothing is ever set in stone. Dear God, _not unless it's cement!"_

"Charlie?" Megan stood in the doorway, her eyebrows arched in concern. "Did you look at the report, are you okay?"

"Cement," Charlie shook his head at her and gestured towards the folder. "In the report on Redondo's assets and holdings, it says he owns land in the San Fernando Valley?"

"That's right," she nodded, slowly. "In Ventura County to be precise, on the edge of the Simi Valley. He has interests in the mineral and aggregates business. On the face of things, entirely legitimate."

"To be specific, he has part ownership in two quarries out there," Charlie flipped the Redondo file open again, his fingers trembling slightly with excitement. "Both of which supply cement grade limestone to the aggregates industry, for use in construction and road-building." He looked at her impatiently, waiting for some sort of realisation. "Calcites and calcium carbonates – the basic constituents of limestone."

"The dust on the shoe and tire prints." Megan understood. "It could still be a coincidence. We'd find traces of both those minerals on every building site in Los Angeles."

"But - "

"Megan," David interrupted them as he strode into the bullpen. "LAPD just rang in to report a double homicide. Both men shot in the head, execution style, bodies dumped in a burning Ford Econoline."

"Our perps?"

"Looks like it. The reason LAPD rang us – one of them was in possession of Don's badge."

**TBC**


	8. Chapter 8

**Set the Fire **

* * *

_**Part Eight**_

_**Morgue – Present Time (4am)**_

"Meet Victor Wilson and Dino Lombardi." The ME nodded over at David and Colby as they stood looking down at the partially charred bodies. "We got a hit for Wilson from IAFIS, and went one even better for Lombardi. Fingerprints _and_ dental records - there's no doubt about the identities."

"I guess it's still too soon for a DNA result from the blood in the Parking Lot?" David took a look at the dental x-rays she handed him. She was right, there _was_ no doubt about it. They were indeed, a perfect match.

"We should hear back sometime tomorrow. And believe me, Agent Sinclair, that's fast. If either one of these two charmers is in the CODIS system, I promise you'll be the second person to know. But going on what we already have, I'd say our man here was definitely involved." She pulled back the cover and showed them his face. "Apart from the fact they found him in possession of Agent Eppes' badge, our Mister Lombardi has a freshly broken nose."

"Way to go, Don."

Colby's congratulations had a sober edge. He was trying his best to stay pumped and optimistic, but it kept getting harder and harder, as the hours ticked slowly by. The two men had met a pretty grisly end. Thank God, for the masking smell of menthol. He crinkled his nose at the stench of burnt flesh, and tried not to wonder where his boss was. At least there were only two bodies. No one else had been barbecued in the van.

"Cause of death in both cases - looks like a bullet to the back of the head. Each body shows partial post-mortem burns, but LAPD pulled them out of the vehicle before too much damage was done. I've sent the bullets down to ballistics. Odds are, they're both from the same weapon."

The ME covered Lombardi again and slid him back into the metal drawer.

"Time of death?" David watched her do the same for Wilson.

She shook her head. "I'll know more when I autopsy them properly. But I _can_ tell you this much, gentlemen, they haven't been dead very long. Probably between five and six hour's maximum, according to liver temperature." She paused, and regarded both men, sympathetically. "We've been told to rack-up the overtime, and make this our top priority. I'll finish the post mortem's as fast as I can, and get straight back to you with the results. I really hope we can give you something to help locate Agent Eppes."

She handed him an evidence bag which contained a black leather wallet. It was damaged and slightly burned around the edges, but he and Colby knew immediately what it was. It was Don's FBI badge. Both men fell silent. _God damn,_ David stared at it, wretchedly. _Just seeing it felt so final._ Like Don was already dead.

The ME gave him a moment. "You'd better take this with you. The only prints that haven't degraded all belong to Agent Eppes."

"Thanks," David's voice was husky.

He reached for the badge with some reluctance, and weighed it, for a second, in his hand. He felt like an unwilling custodian of something infinitely precious. Everything - _all this_ - it felt so wrong. A lump arose in his throat. He wondered if he'd get the opportunity to return the badge to its rightful owner. It was looking less and less likely as the night tipped over into morning. _Probably not_ - he was realistic - he told himself it was easier. It was safer to start thinking in the past tense, the badge was proof positive of that.

No self-respecting FBI agent would ever give up his badge without a fight.

David knew it, and so did Colby. No words were necessary. The badge would eventually end up as part of Don's personal effects. But for now, it was a vital piece of evidence connecting these men to his friend's disappearance. For now, it was his responsibility. He would ensure it was treated with respect.

He flipped open his cell-phone to tell Megan the news. She was on her way to a bust. There'd been a positive lead from the background checks they'd been running on the DA's office staff. Things were moving in the right direction at last, but he'd been hoping for something a little more optimistic. He supposed it was better than nothing, at least they'd located the mole. David sighed, and turned to update Colby. _Yeah,_ _it was better than nothing at all._

He forced his mind to re-focus on the dead men here in the morgue. Now, all they needed was a definite link between these two bastards and Carmine Redondo.

* * *

_**Carmine Redondo's House – Present Time (5am)**_

Redondo turned off his one, secure, cell-phone, and sat for a moment, deep in thought. The news he'd just received wasn't good. This deal was going sour on several fronts and was looking ever blacker by the minute. His whole future was being fucked-up by a handful of blundering fools. He should have listened to his gut instincts and taken care of things himself.

He finished off the last mouthful of scotch, relishing the fiery burn of it. The whole thing - _everything_ - was collapsing around him, just like a fucking house of cards. It had taught him a valuable lesson. He hated being reliant on others. He needed to strike out on his own, and get away from this gilded cage.

The time had come to re-take control.

It looked like Bobby Lomax had been pursuing his own agenda all along. He'd had more than a sneaking suspicion that the man was more ambitious than he seemed. This was the perfect opportunity for him to take over in Carmine's absence. Either that, or sell out to one of the sharks who'd been circling around them in the water. It wouldn't be the first time he'd been betrayed by someone close. _Eppes, it always came back to Eppes._ In the past, he'd always seen to it. The same person never sold him out again.

Perhaps it was time to make sure of things.

_Finally,_ _and very bloodily,_ _sure._

And now, his insider at the DA's Office was beginning to get cold feet. The Feds had requisitioned detailed background checks on all personnel involved with his case. It was obviously only a matter of time before they discovered the identity of his pipeline. Another avenue was closing off to him. Better see to it, the stoppage was permanent.

The Feds were after him for this with a vengeance. The scent of blood was in their nostrils because one of their own had been hit. Those amateurs in the parking lot had messed things up, and left a trail which could, potentially, lead straight back to him. It was yet another strike to Lomax - Redondo wasn't a fool. It was rapidly getting to the stage now, where he had nothing much left to lose.

_Eppes._

It had all turned into a nightmare. He was stuck on a carousel. His entire life reeling and flashing by in a garish whirl of carnival clowns. The whole thing kept spinning in circles. _Eppes - Special Agent Don Eppes._ Eppes, with his beautiful, soulful eyes, the man had single-handedly ruined him. If it wasn't such a bitch, it would be funny. Except that he was no longer laughing. The '_hard as fuck_,' Carmine Redondo, brought down by a handsome face.

"Damn him to hell." Redondo picked up a heavy paperweight and threw it across the room.

Lomax had killed Wilson and Lombardi, but the LAPD had already found them. _Yeah, it all seemed a little too convenient._ Maybe they'd been tipped more he thought about Bobby Lomax, the more Redondo was sure. The Feds had their hands on the bodies and God knows what other forensic evidence. They also had a pretty comprehensive list of all his assets and holdings.

All it took was one bright spark to put two and two together. One bright spark, and the forensic evidence, and they might figure out where Eppes was hidden. From the sound of it, the FBI was acting on the premise that Eppes was still alive. _Did they know something he didn't?_ A frisson of doubt ran through him. _Could he believe anything Lomax had told him? _ If they got to Eppes before he did - if they found him before the detonations . . .

_Well, not if he could help it._

Redondo got up from behind his desk, and moved across to the bookcase. He quickly opened the computerised safe, concealed behind a false front of books. He'd had enough of amateur night. Of fools and treacherous colleagues. There was a loose end which required his attention, and he intended to tie it off himself.

There was plenty of cash inside the safe, plus all the necessary documentation. Fake ID's, passports and drivers licenses, credit cards and off-shore banking details. Redondo had prepared himself well in advance for expediencies such as this. When it came to disappearing off the face of the earth, he had planned things so no one would find him.

So, his retirement would be a trifle premature, but he could probably force himself to live with it. He had a very nice place in Caribbean, on the island of Martinique. It was still a French overseas territory. A very important detail. As a good _'French'_ citizen, he would be totally safe from any nasty little inconveniences. France and the French still refused to acknowledge any US extradition laws or treaties. Redondo gave a small chuckle. What the hell, _vive la France._

A change of name, a healthy bank account, a tropical island in the sun.

_Yeah, he could force himself to live with it. _

He had access to a nearby parking bay where he kept a car ready for emergencies. Nobody knew of its existence but him. Not Miller, and especially not Lomax. The FBI was still watching the house, but there was a way he could leave unseen. Redondo gloated quietly. He was not quite the fool they all thought.

He had time to fix the leak at the DA's Office, and get well clear of the city. There was a private airfield up near Bakersfield where he had round the clock access to a plane. It was just another one of those little secrets he'd thought it best to keep from Miller and Lomax. The off-shore accounts were another. And they were all of them, under a false name.

Before he left this godamned place, there was one piece of unfinished business. It was time to exit the carousel, and finally, put his demons to bed. He needed to verify the truth for himself. To see things with his own two eyes. A necessary evil to go through, in order to close the chapter.

_Before he flew out of the country for good_, _he had to be sure Don Eppes was dead._

Redondo smiled. It was inevitable. He and Donnie had unfinished business. The thought gave him tremendous satisfaction and a sudden sense of release. If nothing else, he could make darn sure no one ever found a trace of Eppes again. It would give him great pleasure to thwart the FBI in their efforts to locate a body. A little piece of karmic payback - a tiny slice of revenge. He closed his eyes and imagined their torment. It went some ways to easing his pain. They didn't deserve the closure a proper burial would bring. Old man Eppes and the Math Professor, the rest of their days would be spent in agony. Always hoping and praying, never knowing. Always wondering where he might be.

_Whether or not, he had suffered. Had he cried out in pain? If he'd been tortured before he died and called out anyone's name . . ._

Of course, it didn't compensate for not being able to kill Eppes himself. Or for being denied the luxury of making sure Eppes really suffered. It was a tiny scrap of comfort in the scheme of things, but still better, oh, infinitely better, than no scrap of comfort at all.

He would drive out to the San Fernando Valley, and bring the scheduled detonations forward. To provide the ever-voracious, construction industry, with the aggregates to make more cement. He would stay and observe the explosions – watch them blow the quarry sky high. The pyrotechnics would be amazing. Oh, yeah, they would be spectacular.

But not until he'd seen Eppes' body, and made sure he was actually dead.

* * *

_**Present Time – (6am)**_

When he was small, he'd had nightmares. There were monsters under his bed. Once the door had been closed, and his bedroom light turned off, they slunk out from beneath the mattress. He was five years old and terrified. He knew they were coming to get him.

The first time, he cried out for his mother, she came to him and took him in her arms._ "Hush, Don, you'll wake baby Charlie. Be a brave boy and go back to sleep."_

Don tried - _he really tried so hard_ - to be big and brave, just like mom asked him. He thought about baby Charlie, tucked-up safely in mom and dad's bedroom. Fast asleep in the old wooden crib which used to belong to him. Don pulled the blankets over his head and tried to blank out the monsters. He stifled his cries in the pillow, until it was soaked through with tears.

A tree branch scratched at the window – a cloud scuttled across the moon. The monsters were angry with him, and Don called out in fear.

They came every night for the next few months, and his mom was tired and cross. Don's cries of terror often woke baby Charlie, and no one was getting any sleep. _"Now, Don, you promise me, no calling out. No waking your little brother. There are no such things as monsters. Try and be my big brave boy." _And he had always promised her faithfully, he would have promised her the moon. He had to be strong, her big brave boy, and he was, until the monsters crept out again.

In the end, it was dad who came to him, while mom always stayed with Charlie. It was dad who cuddled the monsters away, and shooed them out from under his bed.

But now the monsters were back with a vengeance, all claws, and big sharp teeth. They were creeping around him in the shadows, and hiding in the hollows of the rocks. He could sense them, like he always had done. Just like when he was a child. They were waiting for him in the darkness. Waiting for him to fall asleep.

"No."

It was getting harder to keep them at bay, in-spite of the fact it was lighter now. Dawn crept across the horizon and the stars were fading softly away. The sky was awash with blood red streaks – or perhaps it was the blood in his eyes?

He couldn't understand what he was doing here. Why he'd been left outside in the cold. Had he done something wrong and upset his mom, _had he woken baby Charlie again?_

"Please, Dad," he moaned in fear and pain."Please dad, don't leave me here alone."

_Dad. _Don felt a rush of grateful relief. He knew his dad would come and save him. His head was hurting so badly, he longed to feel a loving hand in his hair. His dad rubbed the pain away with his thumb. His _magic thumb_, he called it. Whenever Don fell or bumped himself, dad's_ magic thumb _would always do the trick. It always helped to make him feel better. He really needed to feel better now.

_Why didn't his father come?_

Everything had shattered into fragments, and reality was slipping away from him. The past, the present, the here and now - were all broken pieces inside his head. One minute he was hot, so wretchedly hot, and then he was freezing cold. The monsters . . . the monsters were coming for him . . .

_Why had his family abandoned him here, frightened and all alone?_

_**TBC**_


	9. Chapter 9

**_Set the Fire_**

* * *

_'I'm miles from where you are,_

_I'm laying down on the cold ground,_

_And I – I pray that something picks me up,_

_And sets me down in your warm arms . . .'_

_'Set the Fire to the Third Bar'_ Snow Patrol with Martha Wainwright

* * *

_**Part Nine**_

_**FBI Offices – Present Time (8am)**_

Megan pushed her hair away from her face, and stifled a guilty yawn. She didn't want to think too hard about her appearance, she probably looked as bad as she felt. Outside, a new day was dawning, and already, the temperature was rising. Dramatic streaks of blood-red and grey were splashed across the canvas of the sky.

She shivered, suddenly, at the sight of it. How did the old folk adage go? _Red sky in the morning, sailor's warning_ - she hoped it wasn't a bad omen.

The night had been cold in the valley. _Not good for those lost and alone._

She finished up the interview report, and pressed the save key on her computer. The case was coming together now, but they still hadn't found Don. Sinclair and Granger had visited the Morgue and almost certainly identified his attackers. Meanwhile, she'd been following up a solid lead from the profiles on the DA's office staff. _A break - at long last, they'd gotten a break._ She'd been beginning to think the odds were stacked against them; just lately, nothing seemed easy. The lead turned out to be a good one which resulted in an arrest.

The mole was a part-time secretary with no previous criminal history. She had a high level of personal access to the DA's confidential documents. They'd brought her in three hours ago, and she'd immediately broken down and confessed. Megan sighed, and stared at her computer screen. The woman's name was Doreen Moody. Her son had been a runner for Carmine Redondo, and was now an inmate of California State Prison. Redondo had been able to terrify her with some brutal threats towards his safety. A little judicious blackmail, and the silly woman had become trapped.

She'd been leaking information regarding the trial, and anything _a propos_ to Don, both prior to and after his disappearance. Meetings, phone-calls, confidential paperwork - it had all gone through the pipeline to Redondo. At last, they had enough to bring the bastard in, and hold him without recourse to bail. Megan hoped to God he would be forced to share a cell - and preferably with a lifer.

_Yeah, a lifer sounded pretty good. One with warped, psychopathic, tendencies._

Her fierce reaction abated slightly. Events had moved on quickly after that. Once Moody had signed her confession, the DA hadn't wasted anymore time. He'd issued an immediate warrant for Redondo's arrest, and David had insisted on executing it.

It had come as an anti-climax. Megan felt fundamentally depressed. If they'd netted Redondo at the cost of Don's life, then the price had been far too high.

She gave another heavy sigh. During the intensive bout of questioning, the DA's secretary had realised the true implications of what she'd done, and begun to sob and scream hysterically. Megan almost felt sorry for her – almost, but not quite. Another life ruined by Redondo. _God, how she hated the man._ Her eyes wandered over the bullpen and lingered on Don's empty chair. Without him, the room felt empty, stagnant and full of stale air. It seemed devoid of something vital.

He was the spark who drove them all, but he was no longer there.

_Where are you, Don?_

She liked to think of herself as an optimist – a glass half full kind of person, but under the current set of circumstances, it was becoming really hard to stay hopeful. She hated the feeling of despondency which had settled deep down in her heart. _Don had been gone for twenty hours now._ Twenty hours without a sighting or a word. The only physical evidence of his passing was that ominous puddle of blood. Her defences began to crumble again; _it was a good thing no one else was around._ Crying all over an empty chair was hardly very professional.

The shrill ring of her cell-phone made her jump, and pulled her quickly out of her funk. She reached for it hastily, and flipped it open, dashing away her tears. "Agent Reeves."

Oddly enough, it was the Forensics lab. They had some new trace evidence for her. The rear of the Ford Econoline van had escaped the worse of the fire damage. They'd run some tests on an old tarpaulin which had been left rolled up in the back. The news was grim but confirmatory. More blood stains, no prizes for guessing. All of them type A positive. There was also a match on the blue fibres they'd found on the ground beside Don's vehicle. The partial, blood-stained footprint, matched the sole of Victor Wilson's running shoe.

_That settled it, then._ They were joining the dots, and the picture was forming slowly. Another wave of depression flooded over her. It was a little _too slowly_ for her liking. Wilson and Lombardi had used the van to transport Don out of the Parking Lot.

_But where had they taken him after that? It was the ten million dollar question._

The rest of the CSA's verbal report made Megan catch her breath. She listened to the remainder of the damning words in sinking realisation. The tarpaulin and the van itself had been coated with a fine layer of dust. Calcite and calcium carbonates, to be exactly precise, both minerals found in sufficient amounts to have originated from either a cement manufacturing plant or a limestone quarry. Megan flipped off her cell phone in a hurry, her eyes drawn across to Charlie's whiteboard.

_Calcites and calcium carbonates._

Megan stared across at the numbers, her forehead creasing into a frown. When the initial Intel regarding the DA's secretary had come in, she'd still been talking to Charlie. She'd given him some information he'd requested on Redondo's aggregates business, before leaving the office, quick-smart with her team, in order to apprehend the suspect. _Charlie._ He'd been so pumped up about something, his dark eyes lit with that passionate glow she now knew, indicated inspiration. And to think, she'd almost missed seeing it – almost missed the implication. Too damned intent on going after the mole to pay him very much attention.

_Oh Lord, she might have messed things up here._

A frisson of alarm ran through her. She hadn't seen either Alan or Charlie since returning from the interview room. _They should have been waiting for her. Both pestering her for information. _Under any normal set of circumstances, nothing would have induced them to go._ Under any normal set of circumstances . . ._ she had a really bad feeling about this. In her heart, she already knew what had happened. What was it about this family? It was that goddamned, stubborn, Eppes gene again.

_If Don was here, he would be furious._

But Don wasn't here, that was the problem, Megan pulled herself back together. _She _was Team Leader – she had to stay strong - in-spite of the fact she was hurting. It wouldn't help Don if she fell apart now. It wasn't going to help anyone. There was a painful irony in all of this which she couldn't help being aware of. How many times had she taken Don to one side and informed him he wasn't all-powerful? That he had to stop feeling responsible every time a case went south? He'd looked at her with troubled eyes and a weary nod of acceptance. And she'd always known she was wasting her breath as her words fell on stony ground. If Don was dead, this would become her lot. With the crown, came the responsibility.

_Was she really ready to take on the weight of the world?_

Some of Charlie's equations were still up on the whiteboards. He'd drawn a ring around a map of the Los Angeles Basin, and placed a cross in an area of the San Fernando Valley. It was a cement quality, limestone quarry, part-owned by Carmine Redondo. The very same one they'd been discussing earlier, just before she'd gone out on the bust.

Megan reached for her cell-phone again. She quickly pressed _caller direct_. "Charlie?" Her voice was calm but slightly strained. "Do you mind telling me exactly where you are right now?"

"I think you know the answer to that question." Charlie sounded remarkably unflustered, and totally in control. "I tried to tell you earlier, I'm fairly sure I know where Don is. Dad and I are on our way to check it out."

"No, Charlie." Megan tightened her grip on the phone. _Oh yeah, she had so messed this up._ "You need to stop and give this some thought. Aside from the fact it could be dangerous, if Don _is _there," she paused, and closed her eyes briefly. The pictures in her head were all ugly ones. "If he _is_ there, it might be for the best if you let us get to him first."

"Sorry, no can do." Charlie was unusually defiant. His stubbornness reminded her of someone else, and she couldn't stop her throat from thickening. "It's been more than twenty hours now. Don can't afford to wait any longer. I – I hear what you're saying about finding him, but if there's a chance he's still alive, there's a reason we need to get to that quarry as quickly as we can."

"Is Alan there?" Megan was getting frustrated now. "Put Alan on the phone. I hate to say it, Charlie, but I don't think you _do_ understand."

"I'm here," she heard Alan sigh. "Megan, I have to tell you, I'm in this with Charlie, right up to my neck. We're on our way to the quarry now. Like Charlie says – there's an urgent reason we - "

"Please listen to me," Megan cut him off, abruptly. "If you're right, and Redondo has men out there, then you're putting your lives in real danger. You know what Don would say to you - you know he'd be livid with you both."

"No." Suddenly, Alan became angry. "_You_ need to understand. This is my son, Charlie's brother, we're talking about. Don's special, so special to us. We're neither of us naive or stupid – we know that it might be too late – but Don's lost and he needs us to find him. To bring him home again to his family. We can't leave him out there, _forsaken,_ alone. _Whether he's alive or dead."_

"Alan," _Damn it_, _her pathetic, traitorous throat. Her voice was thick with unshed tears._ "Alan, I _do _understand, believe me. Don's special to me, too. All I ask is that you hold on a little. Wait for us to get there, and make sure it's safe. It'll only take a little more time."

"That's just it," Charlie was speaking again. "There may not be any more time. If I was getting rid of - getting rid of a body, I wouldn't simply dump it intact. I'd want it to disappear completely. No forensics, no identification. That's what Redondo had planned for Don. For him to vanish without a trace."

"Charlie, no, listen, we found the mole. Everything's coming together. The DA issued a warrant. David and Colby are arresting Redondo, right now, even as we speak. Wait for me to get a team together before you go shooting off at a tangent. You just have to hang on a while longer - _please _- don't do anything rash. "

"Megan, will you please just listen to me," Charlie was breathless and distraught. "What better place to get rid of a body than the site of an imminent explosion? I already checked the blasting schedule, and they've pre-set a series of electronic charges for detonation later-on today. If they left Don's – _if they left Don out there,_ they're going to blow him sky-high. _Nothing . . . there'll be nothing left of him. _Just pieces and fragmented remains. We have to get there as fast as we can, or else it will be too late!"

"Charlie!" She yelled into the cell-phone, her heart constricting with dismay. "Charlie, you have to wait, God damn it! We need to get hold of the Bomb Squad and the quarry's blasting engineers. You will _not_ wander into a blast zone, do you hear me? Alan, Charlie - wait!"

Megan knew she was wasting her time. _Stupid, stubborn . . . brave._ Oh, God, her heart went out to them. She prayed they'd get there in time.

_These Eppes men - they were all alike._

Charlie, for all his doe-eyed amiability, was apparantly just as intractable as his brother. He'd already turned his cell-phone off.

Her words floated off into thin air.

* * *

_**Redondo Aggregates Quarry – San Fernando Valley (9am)**_

The early light was pale and strong as the sun rose high in the sky. There was a promise of heat on the horizon, and it was turning into a beautiful day. Carmine Redondo parked his car and looked towards the collection of offices. The whole place was quiet and deserted because of the afternoon detonations. No one would be here to disturb him, he knew he had plenty of time. He'd already called Jeff Thomas, the Site Manager, about bringing the schedule forward. Thomas wasn't directly involved in any of their operations, but he was always prepared to turn a blind eye whenever there was _business_ to be taken care of. A regular bonus of a few thousand dollars did a lot towards ensuring his silence. He was due to meet Redondo at 9.45am to bring the sorry affair to an end.

It would be the grand finale of his time in California. Redondo gave a grim smile. The pyrotechnic spectacular which would eventually bring down the curtain. _If you gotta go out, may as well go out in style._ And thanks to Eppes, he had no choice in the matter. No, Eppes had effectively ruined him. He was about to exit LA for good, so he may as well do it with a bang. He might even push the button himself. That would be most satisfactory. There was something symmetrical, dare he say poetic, in the sense of closure it would bring. He glanced down at his wristwatch, it was barely nine o'clock.

_Plenty of time to finish what he'd started, and get the hell out of Dodge._

He looked around at the ugly white landscape, glad he had worn a pair of coveralls. Even the leaves of the sagebrush were coated in a choking layer of dust. Redondo took some keys from his pocket and walked up to the safety fence. Unlocking the gate, he made his way to the main office, and disabled the security systems. The storage and detonation of quarrying explosives wasn't as simple as it used to be. Thanks to the goddamned_, Homeland Security Regulations,_ everything had to be protected and accounted for. The changes in the law since 9/11 had made everything a lot more difficult, but when it came to disposing of a body, this was still the best way he knew how.

And there were ways of getting around regulations – at least Lomax had seen to that.

He set off along the gravel road that led up towards the canyon. He was close, so close he could feel it. He checked his gun as he walked. The temperature was rising steadily; it was going to be a hot day. The air around him was redolent with a dry blend of sage and dust. His eyes were restless, switching around, on the lookout for any sign of trouble. Even though he'd escaped from the house unseen, he couldn't afford to take chances.

Redondo wasn't stupid. He'd been in this game far too long. He wouldn't put it past Bobby Lomax to turn a deal with the FBI. He could sell them the location of Don Eppes's body in return for legal immunity. If _he_ was Lomax, he'd think about doing it, it was the smart and obvious solution. A clever man might escape prosecution for the kidnap and murder of a Fed. Oh, sure, there'd be other, lesser charges to face, but Lomax could pay his way out of them. And then, pretty soon, he'd be free as a bird to take over the business with impunity.

_Well, Lomax was going to pay for his duplicity_, _bet your life he would see to that._ He might have been forced out of the country, but there were other, effective ways of exerting influence. You didn't always need proximity to have a long reach, as his enemies would soon find out to their cost.

He'd tried to silence the Moody woman, but the Feds had beaten him to it. Even now, the stupid bitch was probably blabbing everything she knew. He hadn't been able to get to her, but he could sure as hell make her sorry. One judicious phone-call to the California State Pen. had deftly seen to that. By the end of the day, her son would be dead. A fitting punishment for her lack of loyalty. When Bobby Lomax heard the good news, it would make the little fucker start to sweat.

_The sooner this was over, the better. He needed to get away fast. _Redondo felt uneasy, and over-exposed, in the strange, almost lunar landscape.

As quarries went, it wasn't a big one - the State of California's rigid environmental laws effectively saw to that - but there was still a brisk walk of several hundred yards before he reached the current rock-face. At times like this, he was grateful for his over-priced, gym subscription. All those unpleasant sessions with his personal trainer had not been a total waste of money.

Redondo reached the end of the temporary track and stared up at the side of the canyon. He reached into the pocket of his coveralls and pulled out a telescopic sight. The blasting demarcation zone was clearly flagged out with red. It was easy to make out the bore-holes where the detonators had already been placed. They were drilled into the cliff-face at meticulously calculated intervals, each position carefully measured, so the top layer of rock would sheer away from the whole with a minimum of explosive force. There was a pile of loose stone at the base of the cliff, left over from the previous round of blasting.

Redondo swept the sight over the mounds of shale, until at last, he found what he was searching for. A dark figure lay in a huddled heap at the base of the blast zone itself. It was partially concealed by a dislodged boulder, and a bank of sad-looking sagebrush.

_Eppes. _

For a second, he felt his heart falter. Strangely, and almost paradoxically, he was filled with both triumph and regret. He had waited so long for this moment - waited for what seemed like forever. But here, now, when he was faced with the truth, the cruel irony couldn't help but depress him. _Oh, God, how he'd wanted this man. _How he'd wanted his pale-skinned beauty. Wanted to own and possess him, and in the end, he'd wanted him dead.

He gave a sigh, and let the scope linger - sweeping it across the man's fallen body, almost like a caress. There was no sign of movement, no sign of life, but he was still filled with the need to be sure. This man had proved to be his nemesis. He had to be sure Eppes was dead.

Even now, after all that had happened, Redondo was flooded with anger. Gone forever. All of it gone. For the sake of a pair of whisky brown eyes. Whichever way around he liked to look at it, the cut of Eppes' rejection ran deep. His life had been changed for ever, he was a fugitive and on the run. Even the villa in Martinique seemed poor compensation by comparison. He'd been betrayed by his colleagues, and stripped of his power, in the space of a few, short months. Effectively exiled from his country forever - all thanks to Special Agent Eppes.

He re-pocketed the scope, and hefted his gun. _Over – it would soon be over._ Time was short and it was not on his side, but seeing Eppes had become an obsession. He was half-filled with elation, half-filled with dread.

_He was acting as if they'd really been lovers._

In his mind, _they had been,_ and therein lay the crux of the problem. He was consumed with both hatred and lust. Part of him burned with dispassionate rage; the rest of him ached like a wronged lover. He'd been hurt, so hurt, like never before, by a straight, undercover Fed. He knew one thing for certain. One thing which demanded an answer. He wasn't going anywhere yet. He had to look at Eppes one last time.

Dead or alive, he had to be sure. _He had to be sure it was worth it._

Redondo scrambled hurriedly down the shifting mound of aggregates. His legs slipped out from under him as the loose rock sank beneath his feet. It was, by no means, an easy descent. The surface was both treacherous and uneven. He lost his balance several times, forced to skate down on his backside for at least a quarter of the distance. It took him several, hair-raising minutes, to reach the firmer ground at the bottom. He waited for the clouds of dust to settle, and his skin began to tingle with excitment. So close, now, he could hardly contain himself. He was less than a hundred yards away from his prey.

_At last._

Redondo kept his eyes on Eppes, and started walking slowly towards him. So, the gods had their fun fooling with him, but by now, he was tired of this game. _Everything happened for a reason._ Yeah, right, he'd always hated that old cliche. Maybe fate had brought him as far as this point to turn things full circle again.

Redondo nodded to himself. He gripped the gun even harder. He realised he was glad to be here, it was a fitting culmination of events. With a sudden burst of clarity, the preceding months all began to make sense to him. The advent of Don Eppes into his life. The lightening bolt of pain and betrayal.

_It all boiled down to him and Eppes – he had to be the one to end it._

**_TBC_**


	10. Chapter 10

**Set the Fire **

* * *

**_Part Ten_**

_'I'm miles from where you are,_

_I'm laying down on the cold ground,_

_And I – I pray that something picks me up,_

_And sets me down in your warm arms . . .'_

_'Set the Fire to the Third Bar' - _Snow Patrol with Martha Wainwright

* * *

_**Redondo Aggregates Quarry – San Fernando Valley (9.10am)**_

"Are you sure this is the right place, Charlie?"

Alan drew up to a halt in the car park and stared doubtfully around him. Apart from one other vehicle already parked, and a couple of empty company trucks, there was no sign of anyone else at the quarry even though it was past nine o'clock. To his relief and slight apprehension, it appeared as though they were alone. So much for Megan's worry, the whole place looked eerily deserted.

"I'm sure," Charlie's voice sounded husky. Now they had actually arrived at their destination, some of his bravado had forsaken him. The thought of what they were going to find was overwhelming in its enormity. He'd been determined to locate Don at any cost, but now his courage was decidedly shaky. He knew, in his heart, Don was out here someplace, but in all probability, he was dead.

He looked across at Alan, and saw the same fear reflected in his eyes. A terrifying wordless dread, that they were too late, and all this was for nothing. His chest muscles tightened in sudden distress, squeezing the air from his lungs. After everything they'd gone through over the last couple of years, how were they going to cope with losing Don?

"Perhaps we_ should_ wait for Megan to arrive?" Charlie hated himself for suggesting it. Even as the words tumbled out of his mouth, they felt like an act of betrayal.

"No." Alan straightened his shoulders. "I came out here to find my son, and that's what I intend to do. But Charlie, you can stay in the car, if you like. No one is going to blame you."

Charlie swallowed, painfully. His voice appeared to have failed him. The world swung around him in a blaze of light. He felt like he was hovering on the brink.

_'What would Don do in this situation – what would Don do if I was lost out here?'_

The question came unbidden, but he already knew the answer. Don would do what he always did. What he had done, all of his life. He would put his own feelings carefully to one side and get down to the crux of the matter. Charlie realised with a flash of insight, just how much they sometimes took Don for granted. He was their rock, their indomitable protector. The one who quietly sorted things out.

If it _was_ Don in this situation, if the current roles were reversed, then he knew his brother would not let him down, regardless of the consequences.

Charlie took a shaky breath and pushed the car door open. Somehow he found his voice again, even though it was hard to speak. "No, dad, it's non-negotiable. Whatever happens, whatever we find, Don needs the both of us now. I kind of made myself a promise. I'm not going to let him down."

The quarry looked like moon-rock. It was a strange, white, desolate landscape. Bizarrely, it reminded him of Larry and his eccentric friend's obsession with space. They were soon both covered in the layer of dust which coated the entire area. It worked its way down into their lungs and clung to their skin and clothes. The security gate was open, a fact which gave Charlie pause. He stopped and looked over his shoulder, remembering the other car.

_They ought to proceed with caution. Maybe they weren't the only ones out here._

"I suppose there's no one working here because of the detonations?" Alan was already striding ahead, following the road into the quarry.

Charlie put on a burst of speed and caught up with his fast-moving dad. "We need to be very careful. The fact there's no security staff makes me certain we've come to the right place. Ever since the _Homeland Security Regulations_ were drafted, the rules for blasting have become very stringent, but this place is like a ghost town. We just walked right in through the gate."

"When did you say the big bang was?" Alan's voice was grim. Like Charlie, he was certain Don was out here. Somehow, he could feel it in his bones.

"It's scheduled for two in the afternoon." Charlie looked around him, uneasily. He'd read some of the rules and regulations available on the internet. The whole of the blast site area was supposed to be controlled and monitored. Security should have been stepped up and heightened, all employees and visitors tagged. There was no sign of any safety measures at all. No guard dogs or security patrols. No specific notices or warning announcements which gave any indication a dangerous explosion was due to take place at the quarry this afternoon.

_There was something very wrong here. _

Everything had escalated so fast since Don had been taken from the Parking Lot. _And,_ Charlie realised, with a jolt of shock, _not only for him and dad._

Things had gone badly for Redondo. His whole life was nose-diving around him. Although Don would not be testifying against him anytime in the near future, the circumstances still looked grim. Especially if he was linked to Don's disappearance – _Charlie amended the thought hastily_ – especially _when_ he was linked to Don's disappearance. Judging by what Megan had said, they had already found the mole, and the DA had issued a warrant for Carmine Redondo's arrest. Charlie knew Don's team well enough by now to realise they were on a personal mission. There was no question of anyone dropping this until Carmine Redondo was behind bars. The man was backed into a corner and what did cornered animals usually do?

_They usually turned and bared their teeth. They usually bit back hard!_

Redondo would want this over and done with. Any final traces eradicated. To get rid of every last scrap of evidence which might connect him to Don. _Oh God . . . _Charlie came to an abrupt halt, his mind racing with sudden panic. He stared wildly around at the deserted quarry, eyes switching frantically in fear. Everything was suddenly, horribly, apparent to him. He should have guessed - _should have realised_. Now he understood the absence of security measures and why nobody was working this morning.

Charlie knew with absolute clarity what Redondo was planning to do.

"Dad – wait!"

Alan turned back to face him, barely concealing his impatience. His expression changed to one of furrowed concern when he saw the dread in his son's demeanour. "Charlie – tell me, what is it? Charlie, please talk to me."

"The detonations – he brought them forward. He's planning to blow the quarry this morning. That's why there's no one out here. _The whole place is about to go up!"_

* * *

_**Site Office – Redondo Aggregates Quarry – San Fernando Valley**_

"You were right, Mister Lomax. He just got here. There was no-one else in the car with him." Jeff Thomas spoke into his cell-phone. He walked through the open security gate, and headed purposefully towards the Site Office. "Look's like he's headed for the blasting area on foot."

"Good." There was rich satisfaction in Lomax's voice. He sounded like the cat that got the cream. "I knew he'd have to see for himself once the Feds began to turn the screws. I believe we agreed on twenty-five thousand dollars?"

"Yeah, I guess - " Thomas, on the other hand, was full of hesitation. "Look, I don't wanna seem ungrateful, but a Fed, now that's a whole different ball-game. I didn't realise the stakes were gonna be so high when I agreed to do this thing. And 'sides, there's a complication. Redondo ain't out there alone. An old guy and a hippy just turned up outta nowhere. They headed out into the quarry after Redondo."

"An old man and a hippy?" Bobby Lomax paused, and then chuckled. "How very piquant and interesting. It sounds like Agent Eppes' genius brother might have actually figured things out. Touching – how very touching - better make this a family affair. Consider your bonus doubled, Thomas. I'll raise it to fifty thousand. If the Feds ever come out here nosing around, Mister Redondo sent you a message. He's the one who told you to bring the detonations forward. You didn't know anyone was out there – you only did what you were told."

"Fifty?" Thomas's doubts vanished, miraculously, as the blood money increased in value. "That's pretty generous of you. Yeah, sure, I only did what I was told. And I saved Redondo's message for insurance. I kinda been thinkin' ahead."

"Wait until Redondo gets up close and personal before you start pressing the buttons." Lomax was all business now. "Then Carmine can wallow in eternity with his precious Special Agent Eppes. When it's done, get rid of the old man's car. It's better for us if no-one knows they were ever out here looking. Don't fuck this one up for me, Thomas. I don't like being jerked around."

"No worries," Thomas answered him, hastily. His attitude had changed as if by magic, and now he was eager to please. He only had a little button to press, and the scent of fifty thousand dollars was alluring. "I'll make sure I get it just right. I've adjusted the timer on the warning klaxons – made it look like deliberate sabotage. If anyone's got any queries, I'll blame that on Redondo too. You can count on me, Mister Lomax. In exactly ten minutes from now, all your problems are gonna be over. In-fact, you could say that all four of them will be going out with a bang!"

* * *

_**Blast Zone – Redondo Aggregates Quarry**_

Someone was pounding on a hollow drum, over and over in his head. The beat was dull and insistent, like a slow form of exquisite torture. It was all at one with the heat and cold that ran like fire through his veins. He tried to bring the world into focus and found that he couldn't – not quite. The spinning sky pitched above him, and slanted off, obliquely to the right.

Daylight. It must be daylight. _Yeah_, _that_ _sounded right_. The sun was white above him and the glaring intensity hurt his eyes. He turned his head clumsily away from the brightness and the pain almost made him throw up. Don moaned, he couldn't help himself. _When was it ever going to end?_ Seconds stretched into minutes – and each one seemed like an hour. Time became a torturous irrelevance as he gave into the pounding in his skull.

_Thirsty_ – _dear God_, _he_ _was_ _so thirsty_. He ran his tongue over cracked lips. In spite of the nausea which rocked in his gut, he would sell his soul for a drink.

No one had come to save him. He was still lying here, all alone. Maybe he was being punished, and they'd decided it was easier not to bother. The monsters could take him and swallow him whole, then he wouldn't keep waking baby Charlie. They could take care of his little brother, and Mom wouldn't look so tired and cross.

_Mom, please . . . I'm really sorry. _

Somehow, Don knew the words were futile. His mom would never save him again. In the mists of his mind, he knew she had gone. She was gone. She had left him forever.

"_Don't let the monsters get me - "_ Don tried to speak the words out loud, but he wasn't quite sure if he suceeded. His throat was sore and sandblasted dry, his tongue swollen from lack of moisture. _"Mom . . . dad, please, someone help me,"_ and then, suddenly, it was too late.

There was something on the dark-edge of his vision. The approach of a shadowy evil. His heart thudded painfully against his ribs, and inevitably, the monster was here for him. He tried to shrink down into the ground, to make himself small and unseen. But there was no place to run and no place to hide, he was totally and utterly at its mercy. _Closer – it was closer now._ The feeling of malevolence was tangible. Don clawed inside his head for a vestige of clarity, and waited for the strength he hoped would come.

It did come. The greyness shifted away from him. And with it, came a chilling finality. The monster stood directly over him, its bulk blocking out the sun. It was then Don could see it was really a man, and his face was horrifyingly familiar. A man instead of a monster, but nonetheless evil for all that.

"Eppes - " Carmine Redondo knelt down beside him and placed a tender hand on his face. "Not dead. _Not dead." _His voice faltered in amazement. "But then, somehow, I just knew it. I knew it, _here_, in my heart." The fingers trembled for a moment against Don's cheekbone. "So beautiful, and yet so tough. You know, it seems quite a shame it should come to this. Such a dangerous and alluring paradox. I'll say one thing for you, Agent Eppes, you really don't know when to quit."

Don swallowed, and strove to moisten his throat. The man's touch was nauseating. He opened his eyes into tiny slits, and tried his best to focus. It was way too hard to see straight, but he knew he had to make an effort. He was weary, so very weary – _why wouldn't they let him go to sleep?_

"I should have known you'd be my downfall," Redondo was speaking again. "From the minute you first walked into the room, there was a sense of destiny about it. All my life, surrounded by pretty boys, and then one day, I looked up and saw you."

"Sorry, not quite so pretty now," Don just about spat out the words.

If he hadn't been so tired, he might have laughed. The situation was beyond ridiculous. He had never envisaged, not in a million years, that Redondo might actually fall for him. The stupid bastard had tumbled headlong into unrequited love with a Fed. It was fucking poetic, in a weird sort of way, like a modern-day, Shakespearian tragedy. The best thing about it – _Don smiled weakly_, _it really was kinda funny _- was that each of them had deliberately sought to bring the other man down. And ironically, in different ways, they had both succeeded in their mission.

It was too much effort to keep talking; the words stole the air from his lungs. Don began coughing helplessly, but still, he could not get his breath. There was blood on his face and blood in his mouth - _he could taste it, copper and salt._ A sticky wetness of blood in his eyes, when he looked up at the man who had hurt him. But worse, much worse, than the struggle to breathe, was having to endure Redondo's touch.

"Easy, take it easy." Redondo crooned over him. In a strange and very sickening way, he almost sounded like he cared. "You don't know how much it hurts me to see you in such distress. You've caused me nothing but pain and sorrow ever since the day we first met."

_What the hell was wrong with this picture? _

Bizarrely, Redondo was full of regrets as though they'd actually been lovers. Don tried to turn his head away, repulsed by the man more than ever. But the movement made the world reel around him. It dispossessed him of who he was. He choked on a mouthful of blood and bile, and felt the heaves shudder through his body. It was easy to ignore Redondo, as he retched uncontrollably into the dust. He was hot and ragingly delirious now. He wished Redondo would leave him alone.

_At least one of them was definitely crazy. One of them, and probably both._

"Fuck you."

The basic Anglo-Saxon gave him a feeling of great satisfaction. Even though it was childish and foolhardy, it was worth all the effort it cost. _It_ _cost_ _him_ _an_ _awful_ _lot_. A blow smashed viciously into his face, blotting everything back into darkness. The sun was like brass above him, in a sullen, reeling sky. Don fought hard to stay conscious. The monster – _no, Redondo_, had moved. He was on his feet, standing over him again, but at least he was no longer touching him.

"A shame, such a shame." Redondo was rambling, muttering the words over and over.

Don heard the familiar snap of a clip being loaded into a gun. _Not again, _he thought, almost resignedly. The whole, _bullet in the head_ thing was becoming decidedly passé. And much to his astonishment, he found he was actually laughing. Okay, so it didn't exactly sound like him, more like a strangled kitten, but it felt good to mock Redondo. To give the knife one last twist.

"Finished - you're finished, you bastard." The words gave him immense satisfaction. Yeah, right, as deathbed soliloquies went, this _definitely_ wasn't Shakespeare, but while they were locked in this macabre tragedy, may as well tell Redondo some home truths. "Everyone around you betrayed you. I played you, Lomax played you. But you were too dumb and vain to see it."

"Shut-up!" Redondo squatted down beside him again, the muzzle of the gun pointed towards him. His eyes were red-rimmed and wild with madness. The weapon shook in his hand.

"When Lomax thought . . . thought I was on the inside . . ." Don struggled on with the words regardless, tears of pain streaking through the dried blood on his face. "Offered me a chance . . . as second in command . . . on account I got close to you."

"Lomax will pay – they're all gonna pay. The fuckers won't get away with it. You should have taken up _my_ offer; I would have looked after you."

Don laughed again, faintly, _cruelly_. "Last thing . . . I ever wanted. You make me sick, you disgust me. Not even if I had a bullet . . . in the head."

His hand groped over the ground behind him and closed on a fist sized stone. He forced groups of reluctant muscles to work, aware that his heart was pounding. He would only get one chance at this; he grasped the rock as tightly as he could. The odds were hugely against him. _Yeah,_ r_ight. Who was he kidding? _Don wasn't even certain he could rise up enough from the ground. At the moment, he could barely turn his head, let alone spring into action.

_But if Redondo thought he was just gonna lie here, the man had another thing coming._

"Beautiful," Redondo hissed. "Beautiful and cruel. You were always my nemesis, Special Agent Eppes. But then again, I was destined to be yours." He raised the gun and levelled it at Don's head. "I hope you can find it in you to forgive me?"

The canyon was filled with an intensity of sound, a sudden, raucous blaring of noise. At first, Don thought it was inside his head, but Redondo clearly heard it too. The other man paused for a moment, his finger frozen on the trigger.

"The klaxons," he muttered in disbelief. "That fool Thomas started the count-down timer." Redondo looked down at Don again. "Don, I'm afraid I have to leave you. Our parting will be brief but poignant. You have to believe me when I say; _this hurts me rather less than it hurts you."_

"Wait!"

Don heard the shout in amazement. _Oh, God, another hallucination. _If he wasn't so weak and damned confused, he could have sworn it was dad. He squinted up at Redondo in panic, but the other man hadn't reacted. He was crazed, beyond all reasoning, as he aimed the gun at Don's head.

"Move! We need to get out of here – _the whole place is about to go up!"_

There was no doubt the voice was his father's. _What the hell was Alan doing here?_

Something flickered in Redondo's eye, and his concentration shifted for a second. Don knew with lightening clarity, it was all the time he had left. Much too little and not enough. It was way too late to be concerned for himself, but he knew he had to try and protect dad. Redondo wouldn't hesitate to kill Alan too. The man was desperate and mad.

Don channelled his last reserves of strength and willed his tired body to obey him. He dug his heel into the ground and rolled up onto one hip. The sky roared and reeled around him, beating and pulsing with crimson. As he crashed the rock into Redondo's skull, the darkness swallowed Don whole.

_Too late,_ he thought, despairingly_. Can't believe I messed it up again!_

The world exploded around him as Carmine Redondo pulled the trigger.

**_TBC_**


	11. Chapter 11

**Set the Fire **

* * *

**_Part Eleven_**

* * *

_**Blast Zone – Redondo Aggregates Quarry**_

Alan reached the end of the track, and stared down towards the base of the cliff face. And there, just as he'd feared he must be, lying ominously still was Don. Everything contracted around him as Alan froze in horror. Time and space wavered and disappeared until all he could see was Don. It was less than a day since he'd gone missing, but in the scheme of things, it seemed like a lifetime. Alan forced himself back to reality. This was no time to give into his sorrow. There was someone else bending over Don's body.

_A man who meant his son harm._

"Dad," Charlie came to a halt just behind him. "Oh God, that man – it's Redondo, I saw his picture back in the files. Somehow, he must have eluded Don's team and come out here to finish this himself. Don't you see, it means we were right? Don must be somewhere close by." It was then Charlie focused on the motionless figure only just visible on the ground. "That's not - " his words faded as he gazed transfixed. "My God, is that . . . it's Don."

"Call Megan." Alan's voice was curt. His eyes remained firmly on Don. "Tell her to get out here straight away, then I want you to go back to the car."

"What?" Charlie grasped hold of his father's arm. "I can't believe you just said that." He shook his head in disbelief, desperately angry and upset. "Don's my brother and he needs me, and dad, you need me too. I won't leave either of you out here alone." He looked around him, uneasily, ever mindful of the detonations. Redondo's presence here at the cliff face had thrown his calculations out of sync. Apparently, they had more time than he'd thought. Thank the lord for small mercies. In the whole, nightmarish scheme of things, it afforded him a tiny crumb of comfort. It wasn't much, under the circumstances, but better than nothing at all. "Dad," he repeated, and his voice wobbled slightly. "I'm not stupid. I know what we might find down there. I'll make the call to Megan, but please don't ask me to go. I want – no, I _need_ to see my brother."

"He's not moving," Alan said, fearfully. It was as though Charlie hadn't even spoken. "He's just lying there - why doesn't he move? I haven't seen him move at all. I have to get down there, Charlie. I have to get down there and help him."

"No, wait, Redondo's dangerous," Charlie studied Alan more closely and felt his heart fracture a little. His sense of outrage went up in smoke as he realised the truth of the matter. His father's lips were trembling; he looked older and stooped with sorrow. It was obvious and very patently clear he was suffering from some kind of shock. Charlie placed his hand on Alan's arm and tried to be stronger for both of them. There was a chance he'd already lost his brother. He couldn't - _wouldn't_ - lose dad as well. "We need to be very careful."

Any other words he wanted to say were lost in a wailing of sound. The noise was shrill, and almost deafening, as it reverberated off the walls of the quarry.

"Dear God, those are the warning klaxons. We've got five minutes to get Don to safety." Alan turned to Charlie and snapped out of his temporary funk. "Charlie, we're going down there right now. We're going down to fetch your brother."

Charlie stood for a second, and gathered his strength. _Five_ _minutes_ _was_ _all_ _they_ _had_. His throat was dry with panic as the cacophony rang in his ears. He took refuge in the one, great comforter, which had always assuaged his worries. Numbers – always pure, always logical. _Numbers might save them yet._ He looked up at the soaring rock face. He really was all business now. Whatever it needed - _whatever it took_ - he was going to help save his family.

The detonation area above them was clearly marked out in red. Thank God, for the internet - and thank God, he had taken time to research. Charlie worked out some rapid calculations on the chalk-board inside his head. He'd read up on the regulations controlling this kind of blast. He knew the maximum amount of explosive the blast engineers were allowed to set.

_Vibration, cubic yardage, air-blast fragmentation . . . the topography of the small area. The maximum amount of explosive charge, range of blast shower, radius of rock slide . . ._

If they could reach the east side of the aggregates pile, there was a just a chance they might make it. If they managed to shelter there in time, they should avoid the worst of the blast.

"Redondo," Alan cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted down at the figures below him. "Move - we need to get out of here. You have to listen to me, _the whole place is about to go up!" _There was no acknowledgement from either man. Neither gave the appearance of having heard him. It was hardly surprising, given the circumstances, or the din of the echoing noise. Alan looked grimly at Charlie. "I can't wait here, I'm going down."

"Dad, look!" There was joy and disbelief in Charlie's voice.

Alan stared down towards the cliff-face, hardly able to trust what he was seeing. It was Don, whom he'd thought was lost to him. _Don was rising up from the ground, and_ _he_ _appeared_ _to_ _be_ _grappling_ _with_ _Redondo_. Alan was flooded with sudden elation and a feeling of fierce joy and pride. They had found Don, him and Charlie. They had found him. _Don was alive._ His euphoria died a cruel second later as a familiar sound split the air. The sharp retort of a gun-shot echoed over the whine of the klaxons.

"No." Alan watched in a fog of horror as both men fell back unmoving. From this distance, up on the aggregates pile, it was impossible to gauge who had pulled the trigger.

He half-ran, half-skidded, down the pile of gravel, heedless of the sharp stone beneath him. It cut and abraded his tender skin, grazing his hands and elbows. Momentum carried him most of the way, as the loose scree shifted beneath him. He was aware of Charlie just behind him and the surreal noise in his head. It was like something Dali had painted. A lurid, ghastly landscape. Like a vision out of a nightmare, except that this wasn't a dream.

Alan reached the base of the pile and stumbled up to his feet. He pressed on ahead of Charlie, worried his younger son might overtake him. He didn't know what he was going to find . . . didn't want Charlie to see it. He was only ten yards away now – a breath away from Don.

Only ten yards away now.

_It was then, he saw all the blood._

"Don. Oh God, Donnie," He heard himself moaning the words out loud, still locked in the Daliesque vision. He moved forward in a fog of denial, his heart hammering hard against his ribs. Oh God, he needed to be with Don, but his body was strangely reluctant. His limbs felt ungainly and heavy and he took far too long getting there.

Alan knelt in the dust beside his son. He was no longer aware of Redondo. He didn't know what had happened to the man, and quite frankly, he didn't care. There was blood all over the side of Don's face, and blood matted into his hair. It ran down under his collar, and his jacket and shirt were soaked in it. Blood - _bright red blood_ - everywhere he looked. There were rust-coloured stains on the ground. Alan felt his heart stutter when he saw the wound in Don's temple.

"Dad?" Charlie's voice was husky. "Is Don – is he alive?"

So much for protecting Charlie, when here_ he_ was, falling apart. His younger son had been a tower of strength. He had shown great courage thus far. Alan pulled himself together. He wouldn't let either son down. The klaxons were a constant reminder that time was getting dangerously short. He felt for the artery at the side of Don's neck and prayed he would find a pulse-rate.

_Nothing._ There was nothing. Alan began to despair. _Dear Lord, this would be too unkind. _Just when they'd been granted a ray of hope, to have it dashed in this fashion.

Something fluttered beneath his fingertips. Faint, but most definitely beating. Alan rocked back on his heels. He felt numb, almost drained with relief. He fought back a treacherous onslaught of tears and raised his eyes to Charlie. "He's alive - I can feel a pulse-rate. Thank God, your brother's still alive."

Charlie swallowed, painfully. He looked across to where Redondo was sprawled, a gun still clutched in his hand. "I think Don hit him with a rock. Looks like your shout was distraction enough for Don to chance making a move."

"Is he dead?" Alan was uncharacteristically cold.

"No." Charlie sounded regretful, and just a trifle blood-thirsty. He straigthened up from examining Redondo and gave his head a terse shake. "Unfortunately not. Stunned – he's barely even out of it."

Alan grunted and rose to his feet. He looked down at Carmine Redondo. This was the _creature_ that had hurt his son. Who had tried to take Don away from them. Alan kicked the gun out of his hand, and again, further off into the sagebrush. Instinct told him to turn his back and leave the man out here to die. _And if he did, well, then no one would blame him._ The man was scum, he deserved it and worse. It would be fitting, an apt form of justice, to watch Redondo get blown sky-high.

"Dad – we need to get Don out of here now." Charlie's reminder was urgent. "We only have three minutes before the charges go up."

Alan sighed, and cursed inwardly. God damn his recalcitrant conscience. After everything Redondo had done to them, right now, he would love to be more ruthless. He knelt down by the man on the ground and slapped him hard around the cheek. "Come on, wake-up, you bastard. The whole place is about to go up!" He gave Redondo another slap, and stood up when he opened his eyes.

"What the fuck – _Eppes_?" Redondo looked up at Alan in confusion. "Eppes - is he dead? Did I get him?"

"I'm taking my son now, Mister Redondo. You have three minutes before the charges go off." Alan spoke with absolute calm and only the hint of a tremor. "What you do now is your business, but I advise you to get the hell out of here. If you ever hurt my family again, I'll come looking for you myself. Charlie - " Alan kept his rage under admirable control. "Come help me lift up your brother."

Together, they levered Don up to his feet. He was dead weight and it wasn't easy. Once he managed to get a shoulder beneath him, Alan threw him into a fireman's lift. He barely even thought about carrying Don, although in theory, he knew his back was going to kill him. There would be time enough for slipped discs and sciatica if they ever made it out of this alive.

Redondo lay still and watched them with an odd half-smile on his face. He raised himself up on his elbows but made no effort to get to his feet."If he makes it, give him a message." His voice was almost regretful. "I want you to tell him from me – I meant every word I said.

Alan couldn't bear to look at him again. If he did, he knew he'd want to find the gun. He was finished with him. Finished with Redondo. The driving priority, as far as he was concerned, was getting Charlie and Don to safety. He'd listened to the voice of his conscience and done the decent thing. What the man did now, was his own concern. So long as he left them alone.

It was Charlie who couldn't help glancing back. He was nervous and just a little intrigued by the man's words and peculiar lack of response. He checked around, over his shoulder. Redondo had not been seriously injured by Don's blow, the severity of his brother's head wound had seen to that. In-fact, Redondo had hardly even been stunned, and yet he was acting very strangely. It was almost as if he found it all funny.

As though he was the only one party to some amusing inside joke.

_The severity of his brother's head wound had seen to that. _Charlie was easily distracted by the thought. He tried not to think too hard about the details_. Blood – there was so much blood. And Don had probably been bleeding all night. _There was no sign of any other injury. Charlie supposed he should be thankful for small mercies. When Don had managed his last, brave feat of defiance, Redondo's shot must have gone wide.

Charlie pushed his fears aside and took a final look at Redondo. The man had finally climbed to his feet and was strolling back towards the end of the track.

The seconds were ticking down now. They had approximately two minutes left. Charlie looked at his wristwatch anxiously; there was still about a hundred yards to go. _They were going to make it_ – he gave a sigh of relief. The mound of shale would provide them with cover. His dad was doing amazingly well, considering Don must be heavy. His brother went to the gym most days and his lean frame was made of pure muscle.

The klaxons came to a sudden stop, and in their absence, the silence was deafening. In a single, terrifying moment of comprehension, Charlie double-checked his watch. _No – it couldn't be - this was incorrect._ The timing was most definitely off. According to his calculations, they still had over two minutes left. One hundred and twenty five precious seconds, _not a pathetic countdown of ten. _Ten seconds to run fifty yards or so. His burst of optimism faded.

_Only a paltry ten seconds left, to reach the east-side of the pile, and safety._

"Charlie, I think your wristwatch is wrong." Alan tried to double his speed. It was a wry attempt at black humour, and the worst understatement of the year.

Charlie didn't even bother to acknowledge him. There was nothing wrong with his wristwatch. Whoever had begun the detonation sequence must have tampered with the five minute warning. He moved around behind his father and tried to bear some of Don's weight. At the very worse, if they didn't make it in time, he could shield him from the brunt of the blast.

'_Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .'_

He did the countdown inside his head. His stomach was in knots and his arms were aching from the effort of supporting Don's bloody head. They had reached the end of the aggregates pile. Another twenty yards and they would be safe. _Sixteen yards, another twelve yards._ Charlie kept on counting. Here, now, more than ever before, the numbers were everything.

'_Five . . . four . . . three . . .'_

So close – they so nearly made it. The _'Explosion Imminent'_ alarm sounded with barely ten yards to go. A single-note, high-pitched siren, which signalled their time was up. It wailed out over the walls of the canyon like a living thing in distress.

"Down," Charlie pulled urgently on Alan's arm. "Dad – we need to get down!"

He remembered his father falling to one knee, as they eased Don gently to the ground. By some unspoken, pre-arranged pact, they positioned themselves protectively over him. He remembered the portentous silence as the siren abruptly cut out.

And then the world fragmented with a vast bombardment of sound, sucking the oxygen out of their lungs in a searing vacuum of hot air. The echo reverberated around the quarry basin, amplifying off the naturally curved walls. It flattened the skeletal sagebrush with rushing currents of air.

_Charlie remembered nothing more._

* * *

_**Blast Zone – Redondo Aggregates Quarry**_

Redondo watched with inevitable fatalism as the Eppes family struggled away from him. Much to his surprise and amusement, he was half-inclined to let them go. The old man had been full of self-respect and a cold and unexpected degree of menace. It must have been difficult for him, under the circumstances, but he had acted with quiet dignity considering what had happened to his son.

_What the fuck,_ he was getting soft. In the head, as well as the belly. Everything was crumbling around him and it could all be traced back to Eppes.

Redondo got to his feet after a moment, and scouted round for the gun. _Nothing._ Of course, he didn't find it, but then again, he hadn't expected to. They'd either hidden it, or taken it with them. Hidden it, if he'd summed them up correctly. But he couldn't afford to waste anymore precious time scrabbling around in the bushes. The insistent wail of the klaxons made it imperative to get clear of the cliff face.

If he was really determined, he could go after them. An old guy, a professor, and a dying Fed – probably wouldn't put up much of a fight. _May as well let Eppes go for now. _On this occasion, his family could take him. There would be another chance in the future to settle his score with the man. This was on the assumption, of course, that Eppes managed to survive round one. Redondo looked down at his blood slicked hands. It didn't seem all that likely.

He knew Eppes had escaped a second bullet. The shot had been deflected and gone wide. He raised his hand ruefully to the shallow graze still bleeding above his ear. Eppes had really surprised him when he'd pulled that little stunt with the rock. His nemesis was proving to be one stubborn sonofabitch – he was forced to admit it with reluctance and a warped sense of real pride.

_What was it about Special Agent Don Eppes?_

A bullet to the skull and a night out in the cold. Redondo had a moment of foreboding. He wondered if the Fates had turned against him. They were doing their best to keep Eppes alive. Eppes should have been killed – there was no doubt about it. By rights, he should not have survived. But whether by the hand of providence, or by sheer force of will, the man refused to roll over and die.

He felt a curious sense of bereavement as he headed back to the dusty road, as though the twisted link which bound him to Eppes was about to be severed forever. He had three minutes to make it to safety. He broke into a rapid jog. A persistent seed of suspicion had planted itself within his mind. Whichever way around he looked at things, it appeared Lomax had paid off Jeff Thomas.

_When would these morons ever learn? _

His list of enemies was growing ever longer. He needed to get away from here, and yet again, his priorities had changed. There was no more time to waste. His life was being dictated to him. All events and circumstances were rapidly escaping his control. He would drive up to Bakersfield as planned. He had to get out of the country. Redondo wondered uneasily, if Lomax knew where he was headed, or, even worse, if the bastard had discovered the hidden bank accounts. He should have given the man more credit. He was cleverer than he'd originally thought.

_He realised it had gone silent._

The warning klaxons had stopped. A full two minutes ahead of time, and he was still too close to the blast zone

_They'd lied – the Eppes had lied to him._

Insanely, he began to chuckle. He had to give the old man some credit – he'd really carried the whole thing off, just like a fucking pro. He looked across to the aggregates pile and saw the Eppes in the distance. Too far away to hear his laughter or the random obscenities he shouted after them. He'd even missed the start of the ten second count down - Redondo laughed harder still. He'd spent what were probably his final seconds on Earth brooding over the beautiful Don Eppes.

Once again, he was struck by the irony of it. The man was truly his _Achilles Heel._

The _'Explosion Imminent'_ alarm cut through the air in a single continuous whine. Redondo stared back at the wall of the canyon and knew he was never going to make it. He also managed to estimate that the Eppes' almost certainly would. The Professor must have worked it out beforehand, _Ah, the advantages of being a mathematician, _Redondo was almost appreciative. He would never have thought them capable of it. It was a perfect way of achieving retribution. Kudos to both the old man and the brother. How beautifully duplicitous of them both.

_When the siren stopped, he knew it was over._

This then, was how the Fates had decided things. In a way, it came as no surprise. He should have known from the moment he first saw him. From the moment Eppes had walked into the room, and he'd looked into those elusive brown eyes.

_Eppes._

The world ripped around him in a vast ball of light.

There was no time.

_There was nothing at all._

**_TBC_**


	12. Chapter 12

**Set the Fire **

_'I'm miles from where you are,_

_I'm laying down on the cold ground,_

_And I – I pray that something picks me up,_

_And sets me down in your warm arms . . .'_

'Set the Fire to the Third Bar' by Snow Patrol with Martha Wainwright

* * *

**_Part Twelve_**

* * *

_**Site Office – Redondo Aggregates Quarry – San Fernando Valley**_

David pulled into the parking lot, his wheels spinning up a swirl of white dust. He drew to a halt near the perimeter fence and stamped on the brakes with some ferocity. Megan raised her eyebrows a little, at this out of character show of driving, but wisely refrained from saying a word. She had a little sympathy with it, and she understood how David felt. There was a convoy of Federal vehicles and an ambulance following rather more sedately behind.

"That's Alan's car." David's voice was bleak, as he pointed over to the ancient Volvo. "Incredible as it might be to believe, they actually beat us here in _that."_

"Better thank our lucky stars then," Megan had already opened the door, and stepped down onto the dusty tarmac. She was amazed at how pragmatic she sounded, as she quickly scanned the area around them. "Hopefully, they can't have too much of a head start." There were several other vehicles parked up by the fence – it looked like they weren't the only ones out here. "Heads-up, boys," she pointed at them, grimly. "Looks like we arrived late for the party."

"Redondo?" David queried, with anger. "What, he came out here to see for himself?"

"Maybe," Megan turned to stare at the quarry, her brow crinkling into a frown. Her friends were out here in danger and she knew they were running out out of time. Something felt very wrong about this, she tried to quell her sense of growing unease. When David and Colby had gone to serve the warrant on Redondo, the house was empty, in-spite of the surveillance. Carmine had slipped away from them. The wily bastard had flown.

"Agent Reeves?" The leader of the Bomb Squad Team walked up to her, and interrupted her fleeting moment of reverie. "Dan Napier." He took her hand in a firm grasp. "Any luck locating the Blast Engineer yet?"

"No." Megan returned his greeting, and shook her head in tacit resignation. "And it doesn't look like we're going to. He seems to have vanished right off the map. I'm starting to get a bad feeling."

"Okay." Napier turned and regarded the entrance to the quarry. "I'd say you have good reason. There are none of the enforceable security requirements necessary before a timed blast. According to the blast schedule they submitted, the charges are due to go off at two pm. The electronic detonators have already been set, but it's simple enough to change things around. It only takes someone to push the right buttons and the entire place goes up when you want it to."

"What can we do?"

"It's simple enough to fix it. I need to get into the Site Office . . . _what the hell!"_

Megan's face drained of colour as the klaxons rang out behind her. For a second, she stared at Napier in shock, as the implications of the noise sank in. "How long?" She heard herself ask him, yelling above the sudden din. Her voice was woefully ineffectual in comparison to the shriek of the alarms.

There were people she cared for, at risk in that quarry. It was hard to maintain her focus.

"Five minutes and a ten second countdown," he shook his head at her, soberly, "and that's assuming no-one's tampered with the timer. I should still be able to stop it if we can get inside that office right now."

"What the hell are we waiting for?"

In his usual _'act now'_ fashion, Colby strode across towards the gate. He made short work of the padlock, breaking it in two with the bolt-cutters. He looked back at Megan expectantly, and she realised he was awaiting her further orders. _Her orders._ The two words were charged with meaning. For a moment, their implication made the breath hitch in her lungs.

She gathered her team around her and took a deep, calming breath. As usual, when she was in sole charge of a raid, she took her inspiration from Don. Her boss was always cool and hyper-efficient under similar circumstances. There was something about his conduct which encouraged confidence and belief. And now he was out there, depending on her. At the very least, to save his family. If, as she suspected, Don was already dead, Megan knew she owed it to his memory.

"Boss?"

It was a gentle query from David. The look in his eyes told her he knew. Her throat constricted at his automatic use of Don's title. There was a vast wealth of meaning in the word.

"Team Two, close down the perimeter." She shot him a brief smile of gratitude. "I don't want any members of the public wandering inadvertently into danger. Sinclair, Granger, secure the Site Office. Use caution, it's probably occupied. No one goes into the quarry itself until the Bomb Squad declares that it's safe." She looked across at Napier for confirmation, encouraged by his nod of the head. "Once that's done, our main priority is to find and escort the Eppes' to safety. Get them clear, and out of danger, before we start the search for Don's b . . . for Special Agent Eppes."

"And Redondo?" David's voice was sharp. He wanted the man badly. Very badly indeed.

Megan nodded, coolly. "Alive and kicking, if possible. This office owes him one, big-time."

She looked at her team with determination and trust as she gave them the go-ahead. If ever she needed to stay in control, then that moment was right here and now. There was no time to waste on luxuries like retribution or personal revenge, however attractive they might seem. She could not afford to bow down to the festering hatred which grew stronger as the hours ticked by.

She drew her gun, and followed David and Colby, aware of Dan Napier at her side. Her priority was to get this man into the office, where his expertise could save Alan and Charlie's lives. She looked at her wristwatch. There were three minutes left.

_Three minutes to do this last thing for Don._

"On my count – three, two, one!"

"FBI!" David hammered on the door. "Open-up, this is the FBI. Lower your weapons, we're coming in. Do it now – get down on the floor!"

There was no answer from inside the office. No sound of anyone at all. Another five . . . ten . . . fifteen seconds. _It wasn't as though the clock was ticking down on their side._

"We don't have the time to waste on this crap," muttered Colby, stepping forward to kick his way in.

"No – wait!"

A familiar sound - _a deadly familiar sound_ - the click of a shotgun being cocked. Megan recognised it with nano-seconds to spare, and acted purely on instinct. She turned, and thrust Colby hard to one side, as a load of buckshot blew a hole through the flimsy wood roughly where his abdomen had been.

"That's it, I've had enough of this," David bent low and charged into the cabin. "FBI – put down the gun!"

The shooter took a moment to recover his balance, before firing the second barrel. David threw himself lengthways and the buckshot scattered over his head. It peppered another hole in the side of the cabin and sprayed lead into the console behind him. David got back up onto one knee, and saw his assailant drop the shotgun. The man reached down and fumbled at his belt. He was searching for a second weapon.

"Don't do it!

_Fuck - the man paid him no attention._ He was desperate and not thinking straight. He continued to pull the gun from his belt, and David was left with no choice.

He tightened his finger on the trigger, and felt his weapon kick in his hand. As usual, his aim was straight and unerring. It was an easy shot at close range. The shooter sprawled bonelessly onto the floor and his eyes rolled back in his head. David didn't need to check his pulse to know the damned fool was dead. No matter how many times he was forced to do it, however necessary it might be, this was a part of the job he dreaded. It didn't come easy to him. Taking the life of another human being was still something which gave him nightmares.

"Megan, Granger, you okay?" The question was terse as he got slowly up again. His ears still rang from the close-quarter blast, and the narrowness of their escape.

"Yeah," Colby sounded slightly shaky as he helped Megan back to her feet. A trickle of blood from a plaster-board, splinter cut, ran down the side of his cheek. "Thanks to the boss-lady, here."

"Jeff Thomas." Megan looked down at the body. Her face was resigned and slightly grey. "Guess we found our missing blast engineer."

As she finished her sentence, the klaxons stopped. _Just like that._ They were swamped with silence. The sudden cessation was worse than the din, heavy and threatening with portent. They stared at one another in helpless disbelief. _This wasn't supposed to be happening yet._

Napier was already across at the console, flicking switches and taking readings. He frowned at the damage the buckshot had caused to the sensitive computerised panel. _"Sonofa_ - they cut short the countdown by a whole two minutes. The detonations are imminent, _we are so out of time."_ As if to reinforce his words, another continuous siren began. As he worked, a muscle jumped in his cheek. "It's the ten second final warning."

"Can you stop it?" Megan was frantic. Her mouth tasted raw with fear.

_Alan - Alan and Charlie. And Don might be out there._

"I'm trying – it's too late once it gets to this stage." Napier punched at the remains of the keyboard urgently. "Damn it, that idiot blew a hole in the console. It's all gone to hell in a hand-basket. At the end of the five minute warning stage, the detonators self-prime. Unless I can get this thing working again, there's no way of going back."

The shrill of the siren came to a halt. The silence was like an accusation. Napier straightened up from the keyboard, and shook his head hopelessly at Megan. "It's fried, there's nothing I can do. This baby's about to blow sky-high. I'm sorry, Special Agent Reeves, better cover your ears."

_Don,_ she thought of him with sorrow, as she clapped her hands to her head. _I'm so sorry. Alan – Charlie._

Megan turned away from the window.

_She was too filled with anguish to look._

* * *

_**Blast Zone – Redondo Aggregates Quarry**_

It was a long time after the dust had settled before Charlie opened his eyes. He raised his head up cautiously; he could scarely believe he was alive. His ears were ringing from the shock of the blast as he looked across at Alan. His father blinked back at him through the layers of dirt, looking uncommonly like a startled panda. Under any other circumstances, Charlie might have laughed – _under any other set of given circumstances._ Right now, as the whole world turned luna-white, laughter was the last thing on his mind.

_He just thanked God, they were alive and unhurt._

He turned to look at the canyon wall, and exhaled slowly in relief. The barren landscape before them was entirely transformed. A section of the cliff-face had sheered away neatly, in a perfect, vertical layer. The area beneath it, where Don had lain, was now buried under a mountain of rubble. If Redondo's little plan had worked, and they hadn't got to Don in time, he would have been blasted into fragments. Any trace of him, lost to them, _forever._

Charlie shivered. They had only just made it. _Another minute and they would have been dead._

_And talking of Redondo - _Charlie stiffened, and quickly scanned the area around them. There was no sign of life anywhere to be seen - there was no sign of Carmine Redondo. _He couldn't - no, it wasn't possible - he couldn't have made it away from the detonation site in time. _Surely the man hadn't survived? The seconds had run out. The charges had ignited. There was nothing left but a pile of tumbled boulders. Charlie scrutinized the horizon again, just to be absolutely certain. Before he gave into the growing sense of release, he had to be one hundred per cent sure.

_Nothing._ There was nothing and nobody. Just them and the choking dust. Just them, the dust, and a mountain of rubble. The stones of Don's burial cairn.

After everything Redondo had done to hurt Don, after all the pain and grief the man had caused them, there was no cell, not a single iota of compassion, left alive and kicking in Charlie's body. The thought of Redondo being blown to perdition could only make him feel glad.

Charlie hardened his heart, and turned away, back to face dad and Don. His family was his main priority now. He would give anything to keep them safe. "Are you okay?" He coughed, and cleared some of the dirt from his throat. His voice sounded hoarse and dry.

"I think so," Alan reached over, and squeezed his shoulder. "All down to you, and the wonder of math. All thanks to you, son of mine."

"And Don?" Charlie asked a little more fearfully. He straightened up, and stared down at his brother. Don hadn't moved so much as a muscle since they'd seen him strike Redondo with the rock. He lay still, sprawled and silent. Limp as a broken doll. He was flat on his back, and horribly pale, the colour leeched out of his skin. _No wonder,_ Charlie found he was shaking. _Judging by the blood which saturated his clothes, it was a miracle he'd survived at all._

"There's so much blood," Alan whispered, in agony, uncannily echoing his thoughts. "Those men, they - they shot him in the head."

Charlie nodded, in unspoken agreement. There was indeed, far too much blood. He remembered the words of the Forensics Report and the stark suppositions it had drawn.

'_A blood splatter pattern consistent with the high velocity impact of a single gunshot into human tissue. No evidence of exit wound splatter. No available ballistics evidence to confirm the calibre of weapon fired.'_

_Oh God,_ the ramifications were patently clear, and the single deduction hit him hard. Charlie studied the injury on the side of Don's temple, but he already knew what he'd find there. _Only one wound._ There was only one wound. The stark gash blackened and ugly. The conclusion was both obvious and alarming.

_It meant the bullet was still in Don's head. _

"Dad?" Charlie tried to keep his voice level. Panic was not an option here, and it certainly wouldn't help dad or Don. It occurred to him then, he was behaving like Don. He was acting just like his older brother. Doing his best to smother his fears in order to protect those he loved. The realisation nearly broke him in two. Charlie felt his good intentions waver. How many times had he been infuriated with Don for doing exactly the same thing?

"I don't know."

Alan settled himself against the mound of gravel, and took Don carefully into his arms. He looked down at the parchment-like skin with distress, and felt the side of Don's neck for a pulse rate. Just like before, it eluded him. And like before, he tried a different spot. This time, there was nothing. No beat, no butterfly flutter. The blood seemed to rise and surge in his ears, as his own heart started to pound.

"Dad?" Charlie repeated more urgently. "Dad, please - "

He didn't know why he was pleading. It wasn't as though his father could change things. Could make it better, like back in the old days, when he'd fixed things just by being dad.

Alan laid Don flat on the ground again, tilting his head back to open up his airway. "I can't find his pulse." He placed a shaking hand on Don's chest and bent low to listen for his breathing. Again, there was nothing. No rise or fall. No sign or spark of life. "Charlie," he looked up in anguish. "Call for help. Charlie, _call now!"_

His cell – Charlie fumbled to turn on his cell - cursing himself for the lapse in common sense. He'd meant to call Megan when they'd first found Don, but the klaxons and Redondo had distracted him. _Oh_, _that,_ _and the minor apocalypse, as the quarry went up in smoke around their ears._

"Donnie – son, don't do this," Alan pinched Don's nose together, and began to breathe into his mouth. He did it twice, and rocked back onto his heels, before starting regular chest compressions.

"Please God, let it work, _let it work_ . . ."

Charlie watched with awful fascination as he hit the speed dial button. He knew Alan had attended a First Aid course when he'd signed-up as a volunteer at the homeless shelter. Part of him wondered briefly, if his father had ever imagined for a second, he'd be practising his skills on Don. That he'd be forced to resuscitate his first-born son instead of some skid row bum. To his relief, he got a dialling tone straight away. His cell could have so easily been damaged.

"Charlie?" Megan picked up after barely one ring. She sounded almost as fraught as he was, her voice sharp with fear and anxiety. "Where the hell are you – are you both okay?"

"We're out at the blast site. No time to explain. We need the EMT's here urgently."

"Hold on, we're on site. We're on our way." Much to his gratitude, she didn't waste time with questions. Yet again, it reminded him of Don. Charlie heard her speaking off-line, and the murmur of background voices. "Charlie, we're coming through the gates right now. Is it safe for you to direct us? Is there anyone else out there with you?"

"It's safe." Charlie's voice cracked, slightly, his attention still fixated on Alan and Don. "Carmine Redondo _was_ out here. I think he was killed in the blast. Megan - hurry - _please hurry._ We - dad and I - we found Don. But he isn't . . . _oh God, he's not breathing."_

"Don?" There was a sharp intake of breath before she spoke again. "Hang-on in there, Charlie. We'll be with you in less than two minutes. You need to stand somewhere we can see you. Does your dad know how to keep breathing for Don?"

"He knows." Charlie watched as Alan worked competently, almost robotically, on the lifeless form of his brother. "Dad, Megan says they're on their way now. I'm going to direct them across to us. Are you . . . are you okay?"

"Go," Alan barely looked up at him. His attention was concentrated solely on Don as he continued the CPR sequence. "Quickly!"

Charlie scrambled over the shifting gravel to the top of the mound once more. His knees gave out on him several times, but determination gave him temporary wings. The bowl-shaped apex of the quarry was still full of clouds of fine powder. He wasn't sure if he was coughing or vomiting, as he spat out the plugs of choking dust. He placed his hand across his mouth and stared down towards the roadway. Sure enough, there in the distance, a small convoy of vehicles was approaching.

_Please hurry,_ he willed them to drive faster. _Don't let all this be in vain. _

There was something, a metallic taste on his hands. _Dear Lord, it was Don's blood._

His hands were covered with dust and blood. They were sticky; coated in red and white. Must have happened when he supported his brother's head as they tried to outrun the klaxons. _Blood – oh, God, there was too much blood. How could Don afford to lose it?_ Charlie gave a smothered sob, and the world keeled on its axis around him. He could not, _would not_, break down yet. Dad - both dad and Don needed him.

_There was still a ray of hope left shining – the hope that Don would survive._

Don was tough. He had always been tough. His brother was so strong and capable. Ever since Charlie could remember, he had never seen Don show any fear. In high school, on the baseball field, and now in his chosen profession. Don, his brother, fighting off the bullies. Don, with his usual swagger, casually defeating all the odds

_Don would never show he was afraid. _

He must have fought so hard for his life, alone out here in the darkness. Abandoned, and in terrible pain, as the hours ticked slowly by. Lying out here on the cold, hard ground, not knowing if they would come for him again. It was a wonder he'd survived the night. A miracle he'd made it through until morning. Bleeding in the darkness, with a bullet in his head. Charlie could barely imagine it.

_Don would never show he was afraid. _

And therefore, neither would Charlie. Now, more than any other time in his life, he determined to stay strong and in control. He owed it to his brother - _he owed it to Don,_ to remain in command of his emotions.

Closer, they were closer now. He could hear the sound of the sirens. He raised both arms above his head and frantically waved them forward. They had seen him – _thank God, they had seen him._ Charlie watched as they headed his way.

He scrambled back down to the base of the pile, and placed a hand on his father's shoulder. "The EMT's are almost here, dad. It's going to be all right."

"Can you – can you take over?" Alan rasped between breaths. He looked gaunt and exhausted from the terrible endeavour of keeping his precious son alive.

"Yes," Charlie tried to control his own breathing. To make himself sound capable and calm. He pushed aside the insidious thoughts which whispered like demons in his ear. _What if this was not what Don wanted? His brother had a bullet in his skull. _Hideous images of brain damage and dependency ran like cine film through Charlie's head. Don, more than anyone else he knew, would hate that kind of worse case scenario.

_What if they were keeping Don alive, only to face a form of living death?_

Soon his muscles were burning with effort as he pushed down hard on Don's sternum. He wanted to scream at his brother to move or open his eyes._ A flutter, somewhere beneath him. _Was it just wishful thinking? No, he didn't think it was. Don was still in there somewhere, trying.

Vaguely, off in the background, he heard the sound of the cavalry arriving. Engines, car doors opening and closing, and then someone was calling out his name. There were gentle hands on his shoulders, and he looked around into Megan's eyes. They were suspiciously bright and red-rimmed with strain. He was inordinately glad to see her. He supposed that he owed her an apology, but knew it would have to wait. Other hands were on him now, pulling him away from Don. He fought them instinctively for a moment or two before his own vision started to blur.

"_I'm getting an output on the monitor, weak and unstable. He's in V- Fib."_

The EMT's muscled him off to one side, as they set up their equipment, and took over. There seemed to be people everywhere, all of them swarming over Don.

"Come on, man, let them do their job," it was David's voice, quiet and unhappy. His touch was firm but steadying as he physically pulled Charlie away.

Charlie slumped in exhaustion next to Alan, and groped for the comfort of his hand. "Don'll be all right. He has to be." The words sounded pathetically hollow. As useless as their attempts to save him had been. _Please don't let it all be too late. _Charlie was filled with sudden hopelessness. _Too late. They had left it too late. _Don had been out here, all night, on his own.

They should have got to him sooner.

Alan didn't bother to answer him. There really was nothing to say. They sat there, covered in blood and dust, both too dazed and shocked to talk. The EMT's charged up their paddles, and Charlie closed his eyes. He couldn't – _wouldn't _- watch this. He did not want to see Don die.

"_Starting with two hundred joules. Clear!"_

Alan gripped his hand painfully hard as the medic's pressed the button. There was no cessation of pressure and Charlie knew the defibrillator hadn't worked. He heard the whine of the machine re-charging, and the adrenalin-fuelled race of his own heart. He would have gladly ripped it out from his body if there was any guarantee of saving Don.

"_Up to three hundred joules. Clear!"_

Again, there was nothing. Alan started to pray. The old Hebrew words were oddly comforting. Other than that, there was silence. No sound. No one else said a word. Slowly, Charlie opened his eyes as they set up the paddles one more time.

"_Three hundred and sixty joules. Clear!" _

Charlie knew enough about the use of defibrillators, and the effect of electrical joules on cardiac muscle, to realise this was the optimum amount of voltage they could use. There was no point turning the output up higher. If it didn't work now, it never would. They would probably try again a few times, but Charlie knew the odds were diminishing. If Don's tired heart didn't even out on this go, the chances were, he would flat-line.

He flinched, as the current jerked Don off the ground, and arced through his brother's body. There was a second of terrible anticipation before the monitor started beeping regularly again.

"Okay, I have a rhythm. He's levelled out in sinus tachycardia. Let's intubate, get an IV in situ, and call in a Mercy Flight." The lead EMT looked briefly at Megan. "Don't want to waste any precious time taking this guy back by road. The sooner we can get him to the Neuro guys at Huntington, the better."

"I'll see to it."

Charlie heard Megan start talking, but he couldn't take his eyes off his brother. Don began to sigh in and out, making awful gurgling sounds in his throat. It was a nightmare - _like a terrible nightmare_ - being forced to witness his appalling struggle, but it was better than the preceding silence when Don had not been breathing at all.

The sights and sounds began to merge into one. He clung harder to Alan's hand. Until now, he'd been fired with the driving urge simply to find his brother. The reality was different - so different. It was hollow, and utterly terrifying.

Charlie watched as the medics fought for Don's life.

_He felt suddenly, and devastatingly, cold._

**_TBC_**


	13. Chapter 13

**Set the Fire **

* * *

**_Chapter Thirteen_**

* * *

_**Blast Zone – Redondo Aggregates Quarry**_

Colby Granger stood up straight for a second, and wiped the sweat from his brow. Even though it was now late in the afternoon, it was still mercilessly hot out in the quarry. He looked across to the canyon wall, and experienced a small jolt of deja-vu. The dusty heat and rocky terrain reminded him of Afghanistan. He took a swig from his water bottle. Those memories were best stored away fast. Stored away with everything else they entailed, and the secrets he kept locked under wraps.

_Yeah, right._ It was just the feel of the sun on his back, and the insidious, choking dust. Just the sense of danger all around him, and the air of tragedy so narrowly averted.

_Not the time or place for this,_ Granger shook his head, slightly. _This was so not the time or place._ Better get his brain in gear, he had other, more pressing priorities. He had a job to do - better get on and do it. He had to focus on the present, not the past. He screwed the cap back on his water bottle, and concentrated on the task in-hand. Okay, it might be scorching here now, but last night, in the shade of the overhang, it must have been pretty close to freezing. He'd spent more than enough time, out in the desert, to realise how low the temperature could fall.

_Heaven alone knew his boss was tough, but how in the hell, had Don made it?_ Granger qualified that thought, gloomily, the future was still too uncertain. _Rather - how had he made it through the night?_

Don had not looked much like a survivor when the helicopter whisked him off earlier. He'd been hooked up to IV's and monitors, being bagged by a grim-faced medic. The word survivor seemed a little _de trop._ It didn't seem all that appropriate. When it came right down to the wire, Don had looked anything but.

They'd been out here for more than eight hours now. The quarry was a major crime scene. The Bomb Squad guys and structural engineers were still assessing the site. They'd cautiously declared the area safe so they could start digging through the rubble. The place had rapidly taken on the appearance of a processing plant, as conveyor belts and evidence sifting tables were set up. So far, they hadn't found anything, except some traces of the Eppes's flight to safety.

_Boy, _Granger shook his head, again, as he examined the mountain of debris. _Talk about having luck on your side. There were times when having a math genius around could give you a distinct advantage._

They had an idea where Redondo should be from the location Charlie had given them. It was there they'd concentrated the forensics search, in the hope of finding his body. _Or rather, any part of his body._ Better to be realistic. It would be nothing short of a miracle if he'd survived the blast intact. The thought gave Granger a gleam of satisfaction. It was a fitting and rather biblical revenge. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth – or any other piece of flesh they stumbled over.

It would be really good to know Redondo was dead. That the whole, sorry episode, was over. The man had done a lot to hurt them.

_He had done a lot to hurt Don._

"Hey, Colby," David Sinclair approached him, and yelled over the noise from the bulldozers. He was in the process of putting his cell phone away, and looked strained and frazzled with the heat. "They found anything yet?"

"Nope. Not even a gold filling." Granger studied his partner's solemn face, and felt any trace of optimism sink even lower. "Any news from Huntington?"

"Nothing recent. Megan says he's still in surgery. Doesn't sound too good, though. It was touch and go on the Mercy Flight. Don barely made it in."

"Damn." Granger swore softly under his breath. He'd seen his fair share of head injuries out in the field, and knew they could be contrary. Don had looked pretty bad when they'd got to him at last, but they all knew their boss was a fighter. "And the Eppes's – how they doing?"

Sinclair shrugged. "Not great. Just about holding it together. Megan's with them for the duration. However long it might take."

They glanced at each other, uneasily, both reluctant to say the words out loud. The whole world had altered in the blink of an eye. In just under thirty six hours. Granger knew he'd been getting on David's nerves with his refusal to give into despondency, but after finding Don alive, against all the odds, it would be too cruel if death claimed him now.

"Special Agent Sinclair?" The lead CSA hollered over to them. "You'd better come and take a look at this."

The remains of a good quality, black leather jacket, shredded and covered in what appeared to be blood. Granger studied it, carefully. He thought he'd seen it before. Last night, when they'd gone out to the Redondo house, he could have sworn the man was wearing one just like it. Of course, it was difficult to be one hundred per cent sure, the garment was too badly damaged. He looked across at David and read a similar thought in his eyes.

It was a jacket and not a body part. They both wanted their pound of flesh.

He shrugged his shoulders at his partner. "Well, it doesn't belong to Alan or Charlie. And the EMT's cut off Don's jacket when they were treating him."

"It may belong to Redondo, but it still doesn't prove the man's dead." David's brow was furrowed. "Easy enough to leave a jacket behind, and hope someone will think you didn't make it."

"What?" Granger was incredulous. He swept his arm out in a gesture to encompass the devastation surrounding them. "Come on, wake up and smell the roses. It's a miracle Alan and Charlie survived and they had genius on their side. No one walks away from this kind of ordinance. I've seen it too many times before. First hand, up close and personal. Redondo has to be dead."

"Maybe," David still wasn't happy. "The bastard's too slippery, way too clever. I'm not prepared to believe he's dead, until I see the body parts to prove it. He's eluded us too many times before. This seems a little on the easy side."

"We've barely made any headway here," the CSA interrupted. "It's going to take days, possibly even weeks, before we can present you with anything, um – _concrete."_

"Funny guy," Granger groaned, and shook his head, but the bad pun helped release some of their tension. He stared across at the huge pile of rubble, and knew the Forensics tech. was right. There was no point holding their breath here. This was going to take a long, long time. He nodded at the jacket again. "It could have been blown off his body. I've seen that happen before. If that's blood, we'll get a match off CODIS, but I agree, it would be good to see some flesh."

"Come on, we've been out here long enough." David straightened up, suddenly. "No point hanging around any longer. Let's head back to LA."

"Huntington?" Granger asked, softly.

David didn't even bother to answer.

* * *

_**Huntington Hospital - LA**_

Alan tried moving cautiously. God, his neck and shoulders were killing him. The muscles were rigid, frozen and tight, with the effort of turning his head. He knew what had caused it, of course; the answer to that question was a no-brainer. Hauling Don across the quarry in a fireman's lift had not done his old bones any favours. Don was fit and wiry, his lithe body almost solid muscle. Yet Alan had lifted him easily, and he'd run with him for almost five hundred yards.

Quite amazing in retrospect.

Funny, at the time he'd felt nothing at all. Don had felt light as thistledown when he'd carried him away from the blast zone. All those clichéd stories he'd read about mother's lifting cars off their children. Perhaps they weren't simply old wive's tales. Perhaps they really did have some basis. Alan felt his eyes haze over with tears as the memories came flooding back to him. The time in the quarry was like a nightmare. All of his worse fears come true.

Then, of course, there was the CPR. At the time, he'd really enjoyed the course and learning the vital skills it taught him, but never in a million years, had he imagined using them on Don. When they'd done the section on CPR, he remembered the instructor had warned them how physically taxing it could be. How he'd told them that most would-be lifesavers became ineffective after as little as three minutes. Alan tried to recall how long it had been before the EMT's had arrived, but the events in the quarry were one big blur. He no longer had any real concept of time.

It was strange what you thought about at moments like this. Strange how the memories came back to you. The_ first_ time he'd ever picked up his son, he'd held him in the palm of one hand.

Don had rushed early into the world, four weeks before he was expected. Even then, he'd been tough, a scrawny little fighter, ready to take life head-on. As a baby, he'd been a sheer delight, always easy-going and contented. The only time he'd ever really cried was when he needed urgent attention. He'd grown up into a sunny little boy, happy and energetic, with an over-adventurous tendency to get into dangerous situations.

There was one time - _Alan recalled it well_ – it was probably when his hair began to turn grey. Don must have been all of three years old, fearless, and filled with curiosity. He'd climbed right to the top of Aunt Irene's oak tree, at least thirty feet off the ground. It had frightened the life out of him and Margaret, and Aunt Irene had nearly passed out. He'd debated calling the Fire Brigade when the little monkey got himself down.

Alan smiled a little wistfully at the memory. Donnie had been so pleased with himself after conquering that big old, oak tree. He'd been dirty and covered in scratches, with grazes on both his knees. One flash of that amazing, magical smile, and he and Margaret had forgiven him anything. They'd alternately hugged him and scolded him, while Aunt Irene collapsed with palpitations. Secretly, underneath his relief, Alan had been inordinately proud.

There'd been another time, _another dose of grey hairs,_ long before all the fuss about child car seats. Don had opened the back door of the station wagon and fallen out onto the road. All very well, if they were stationary, not so good at twenty miles an hour. A miracle and four stitches later, they had learned a little more about their son. Not only did he have a frightening disregard for safety, but he also had a very hard head.

_Dear Lord, I hope he still has it. I hope Donnie still has that hard head._

Maybe it'd spoiled him and Margaret a little; Alan sighed, as he remembered. Everything changed when Charlie was born, and his advent was a shock to the system. He was a lively, demanding baby, who never slept longer than three hours at a time. Margaret had been worn out from lack of sleep and Don started having night terrors. There were monsters hiding under his bed. They were waiting - waiting to get him. Those faceless, formless, horrors. Alan recalled it well.

_It was the first time his son had been afraid._

Alan frowned. They'd all been so frazzled. Fraught and deprived of sleep. In the end, he'd been the one to soothe Don's fears, while an exhausted Margaret stayed with Charlie. Perhaps it had been an omen?

_A portent of their life to come. _

He found himself staring at the Waiting Room doors. Willing them, with all his heart, to open. At the same time, he was terrified - _if they stayed closed, the news couldn't be bad._ They hadn't been allowed on the Mercy Flight – not enough room on the helicopter. It had been hard for him to let Don go again, so soon, after they had only just found him. It was his son, _his precious elder son,_ and Alan needed to be with him. The rational part of him understood why, but the wrench had been almost primal. His instincts had screamed to accompany Don.

_To save him from the monsters again._

In the end, it was Megan who drove him and Charlie to Huntington. Alan wondered briefly about his car, at the moment, it was the least of his worries. He knew someone on Don's team would take care of it. The journey into town had silent and subdued. Each of them had hardly said a word. To be honest, Alan was glad of it, glad of the protective silence. Maybe it was a side-effect of the dust, but for some reason, his throat refused to work normally. He'd barely been able to speak a damned word, not since the Mercy Flight had taken Don.

He looked at his watch for the umpteenth time. The hours were passing by so slowly. Don had been in surgery for nearly six hours. Surely that couldn't be good?

They'd eventually reached the Emergency Room almost two hours after Don. Two hours of total agony, and silent, unspoken fear. The late morning traffic had been heavy, and the journey seemed to take forever. When they finally arrived, he was already being treated, and they were consigned to the first of several waiting rooms. Megan insisted, gently but firmly, that both he and Charlie be checked over, but at the time, his neck hadn't started hurting. It had only recently come on. There were a myriad of scrapes and bruises, and the unrelenting ringing in his ears. He'd been patched up, given ear drops and a head trauma card, before being pronounced just fine. It was back to the Waiting Room, and cups of bad coffee, while they endured the endless vigil for Don.

Charlie, much to his relief, was fine. Or, at least physically so. Just like him, he was covered in minor cuts, and suffering from a burst eardrum. There'd been a bittersweet moment, back there, at the quarry, when Alan thought they wouldn't make it. A moment of truth between them, when they'd both tried so hard to save Don. In-spite of his unbearable anxiety, Alan was filled with pride. When the ten second countdown had come to a stop, there could be no finer man at his side.

His younger son sat beside him in silence, his face as pale as a ghost. Part of it was the dust, of course, it clung like an extra layer of skin. It didn't explain his white knuckles, or the pallid tinge around his mouth.

Eventually, after what seemed like a lifetime, the Neurologist came out to find them. Alan studied his face and feared the worse, the man looked exceptionally grim. He was grateful for Megan's supportive touch as his knees seemed to turn into water.

He pulled himself together again for Charlie. His younger son had been so strong. All through their ordeal back at the quarry, Charlie had surpassed himself. Alan was under no illusions – they were alive thanks to Charlie's genius. If it hadn't been for his wonderful gift, the detonations would have blown them apart. They would still be out there in the quarry, buried under several tons of rock. Their bodies crushed and fragmented, just like Redondo had planned for Don.

_Don_.

To a lay person, his injuries sounded horrendous. A litany of shocking words. Alan listened, and even thought he heard them, but it was so hard to connect them with his son. On a couple of other occasions, when Don had been wounded, and Alan had been at his side, the injury had been unpleasent to hear about, but nothing he couldn't comprehend. _A bullet to the shoulder or fractured ribs_, by no means nice, but entirely intelligible. This, on the other hand, was terrifying. Alan was filled with silent dread. His son was critically injured.

_Don had a bullet in his head._

Don had been shot almost squarely in the forehead. The gunman must have been standing right in front of him. The bullet was actually lodged in his skull – stuck fast in the frontal bone itself. According to the Neurologist, it was not all that uncommon, _and aside from some residual infection_, even worked in Don's favour. It had caused a linear fracture, and something called a sub-dural haematoma. Apparently, this was a build up of blood in the membranes between the skull and the brain. As the bleeding increased, it took up more space, causing intracranial pressure.

_The only shred of comfort, from Alan's point of view, was that the bullet hadn't penetrated Don's brain._

Everything else was bad enough, though. He felt like he was living his worse nightmare. It really came to something, when he thanked his lucky stars, that a bullet had wedged itself in his son's skull. Don also had some fractured ribs, and was suffering from severe hypothermia. _He'd lain all night on the cold, hard ground. _Alan wasn't exactly surprised.

After the Neurologist had talked to them, Don had been rushed straight into surgery. There'd been no opportunity to see him, and time had been on go-slow ever since.

He vaguely recalled being shepherded upstairs, and Megan had gone to fetch coffee. He and Charlie had sat there in silence, both of them too stunned to speak. He looked across at Charlie again. He was pale and his clothes were filthy. _They would have to get changed before they went to see Don_ – Alan clung onto that thought. He had more than an inkling that Don's diagnosis hadn't come as a total shock to Charlie. He must have seen something in the Forensics Report when they were still in the FBI office.

Alan regarded his younger son with a mixture of love and compassion. Charlie had done what he thought was right, in with-holding _that_ piece of choice information. _Just like his brother, _Alan thought, with a pang. _It was the kind of thing Don was always doing. _Protecting his family, at the expense of himself. At high cost to his own feelings.

Which was why he'd insisted on meeting him for lunch. _Dear God, was it only yesterday? _By this time, he'd called into _Langers_ to pick up Don's favourite pastrami. He'd spent the morning roasting a chicken, and pottering about in the yard, tending his flowers and vegetables, while he went over what to say to Don.

It was never easy talking to Don. _Not really talking to Don. _The phrase _'to clam-up' _must have been coined for him. It summed up his older son perfectly. Alan sighed, and stared fixatedly down into the depths of the styrofoam cup. He'd been worried about Don lately – far more so than usual. There'd been something he couldn't put his finger on. It had been gnawing away at his gut. Don came in too late, and always looked tired. The wonderful smile had gone.

"Dad?" It was Charlie's faltering voice. "Megan asked if you wanted more coffee."

Alan forced himself to look up again. _How was he going to get through this?_ More coffee? It was kind of her to offer, but in the present scheme of things, coffee was the last thing on his mind. "No, thank you. No more coffee."

He sighed, and attempted to clear his throat. He knew he ought to sound more reassuring. It was time for him and Charlie to have a little talk. Time to find out the truth about Don. There was something - he'd seen it in Charlies eyes. Pain and a terrible realisation. There was something his son wasn't telling him. Something he needed to know.

"Megan, would you mind?" he gestured down at his dusty clothes. "It may be possible to organise a shower and some scrubs. I'd like to clean up before we get to see Don, but there's no way I'm going home to do it."

"Of course." Megan looked at him, then got to her feet, and tactfully withdrew from the Waiting Room.

"You knew. didn't you?" This was it, better cut right to the chase. Time to get to the heart of the matter. Alan leaned in closer to Charlie, and gingerly placed an arm around his shoulder. The top half of him ached like the devil and he wished he had some _Advil_ in his wallet. It was more than a little ridiculous. Here he was, in the middle of a hospital, and he couldn't get his hands on any pain-killers. "Back there, what might have happened. You knew what those monsters did to Don?"

"The Forensics Report," Alan felt Charlie take a deep breath, and then he sagged, as the air left his lungs. "There was a blood splatter pattern for the entry wound, but no evidence of an exit wound splatter. I knew the bullet was still probably inside him. They searched the garage with a fine-toothed comb, and didn't come up with anything. But I didn't know Don had been shot in the head, until we found him out at the quarry."

"I see." Alan swallowed hard. Charlie had stepped up to shoulder this burden. It was about time he took some part in it. "So, when he – when he stopped breathing, and I started with the CPR, you knew . . . you knew . . ."

Alan wavered, but he couldn't go on. The picture was becoming all too graphic. He saw the dreadful acknowledgement on Charlie's face. _Oh God, what a load to bear._ And Charlie - _dear Lord_ - Charlie, had taken sole responsibility for it. They looked at each other in silence for a moment, contemplating the possible outcomes. The pictures were grim, to say the least, but in that moment of truth, they made a pact. In-spite of the consequences, despite any cost, they would do everything they could to care for Don.

_Whatever it took, and however hard, they would support him with dignity and love._

"I had to make a decision. A split second was all I had." Charlie whispered, brokenly. He half-turned into Alan's sore shoulder, and it was as though the flood-gates had opened. "Don's a fighter – he's so damned stubborn. If anyone can beat the odds, he can. We had to give him every possible chance, every opportunity to prove it to us. It's just that – _Oh, God_ – if he comes out of this. If he lives, but he has brain damage . . ."

"No," said Alan. His voice was firm. "We're not going to think that way. You said it, Charlie, you said it yourself. No one's more stubborn than Donnie."

He looked up, as the door opened, expecting to see Megan again. Instead, it was a man dressed in surgeon's scrubs, holding a clip-board in his hand. This was it, then. The moment he dreaded. His arm tightened fearfully around Charlie. For a second, he doubted if he could even get up. His legs had taken on a will of their own.

"Mister Eppes?"

"Yes, I'm Alan Eppes. This is my younger son, Charlie."

"John Parks." The doctor held out his hand. "I'm the Consultant Neurosurgeon in charge of your son's case. Thank you, for being so patient. I'd like to speak with you both about Don."

_Why so formal? _Alan wondered, vaguely, as the three of them shook hands politely. It was surreal and faintly ludicrous, as though they were attending a garden party. He looked at the taller man candidly. It was time to cut all the bullshit. They'd been waiting for almost eight hours now. He just wanted to know about Don.

_"Please tell me – how is my son?"_

**_TBC_**


	14. Chapter 14

**Set the Fire **

* * *

**_Part Fourteen_**

* * *

_**Redondo Shipping and Freight Offices – LA Waterfront**_

Bobby Lomax put the telephone down slowly. He sat for a few seconds, deep in thought, and then looked across to where Miller waited. "The Feds arrived right after Carmine. Somehow, the Professor figured it through. He must have led them there. That idiot Thomas popped the switch and then tried shooting it out with them. Lucky for us, they shot him dead."

"And Carmine?" Miller glanced nervously over his shoulder as though expecting his ex-boss to walk through the door. He'd been on edge and antsy ever since he'd arrived, a little later than planned.

"A toast," Lomax laughed, softly, and got out two tumblers. He didn't hold back on the measures. After weeks of tension and upheaval, he figured they deserved a good drink. And it didn't come much better than this. A bottle of twenty-five year old _Talisker_. It gave him intense satisfaction to plunder Carmine's highly prized, single malt. "Relax - the place went up like the fourth of July. Thomas got that bit right. The Feds have got a small army out there, searching for Carmine's body."

He leaned over the desk and clinked his glass with Miller's. The prosaic action settled them both a little. As did the fiery liquid which burned a warm path down their throats.

"What body?" Emboldened by the shot of whisky, Miller joined in the humour with a crass attempt of his own. "Gonna take them forever to sort through that lot. Ain't gonna find more than dust particles, and maybe the odd piece of bone."

"They found Agent Eppes." Lomax was thoughtful. He shook his head ever so slightly. "Apparently, the man has more lives than a cat. They air-lifted him out to Huntington."

"You want me to take care of that?"

"No." Lomax's response was sharp. "Eppes is no threat to us anymore, even _if_ he actually makes it. Carmine's dead, the trial's over and done with. We need to keep our heads down and consolidate. It'll be tough enough reassuring our customers we intend to carry on as normal. We need to make sure the Russian boys don't get any jumped-up ideas. The last thing we want, thrown into the mix, is a bunch of angry Feds on our backs. They're gonna be mad enough as it is, because someone hurt their precious, Agent Eppes. Now Thomas is dead, there's no lead back to us. They'll think Redondo screwed up at the quarry."

"And the little problem at the DA's office?"

"Carmine set that one up all by himself. The woman will talk, there's no doubt about that, but the Feds'll probably cut her some slack." The phone rang again, insistent and shrill. Lomax picked up the receiver. "Yeah, Redondo Shipping and Freight?"

Miller watched his face change as Lomax listened to the message. The colour leeched rapidly out of his skin as he put the handset down.

"What is it - what's wrong?"

"Well, well, talk of the devil. That was California State Prison. Carmine's mole inside the DA's office? Some other prisoner just knifed her son."

Miller looked around at the door again, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. "Only one person coulda ordered the hit. Carmine never leaves any loose endings. He must've done it sometime this morning. He has a lot of friends inside the State Pen."

"Maybe," Lomax got to his feet, and moved across to the window. He stared down into the Parking Lot below, his forehead a chequerboard of thought. "Carmine was always one jump in front, but the Eppes business messed with his head. It was the perfect opportunity for us to make a move while he played out his little obsession." He drummed his fingers against the window frame. "Having that kid killed, up in Cal. State, he was trying to send us a message. To let us know he was out there – _he was out there and he knew."_

"Well, he ain't '_out there'_ now, it's impossible. " Miller tried to reassure himself. "He went up like fucking Humpty Dumpty. Ain't no way he could have survived a blast like that, you said it yourself, he's dead. It's gonna take the Feds forever to put him back together again."

"The Eppes' survived _a blast like that."_

The words dropped like a stone between them. Falling starkly - irrefutable and certain. For a moment, there was silence. There was nothing else Miller could say. A sheen of sweat had appeared on his brow – he made no attempt to wipe it away.

Lomax straightened, and pulled himself together. He moved away from the window. He presented too much of a target there, neatly framed in the pane of glass. "I want you to stay close to the Feds investigation – it's only a matter of time. We'll hear soon enough when they find him. Or should I say, when they start picking up the parts."

"And if they don't?"

"We'd better seriously hope they do," Lomax began to laugh, mirthlessly. "If they don't, then we'll probably be dead."

* * *

_**Huntington Hospital – Pasadena, LA**_

Alan could remember a similar feeling, another time, in another hospital. A tightly controlled sense of terror when your whole world is about to fall away. The news about Margaret had been devastating, and Alan had been woefully unprepared for it. This time, things were different. He was bleakly expecting the worse.

_He kidded himself he was ready. _

John Park's office was surprisingly sparse. Neat and meticulously organised. And strangely, it gave Alan some comfort. The man had been delving around inside Don's head – if his office was anything to go by, then he would have replaced things tidily.

"You've been waiting a long time, you must be tired." The surgeon looked at them with some sympathy. He pushed a pen and a pad of paper across the desk to Charlie. "It might be helpful to write things down if you want to come back with questions later."

"How's Don?" Charlie sounded as if he was bracing himself.

_Alan knew just how he felt._

"Okay, first things first, he's alive." Parks kept his voice even. "Remarkable, considering the length of time he spent out of doors and untreated. Don must be pretty fit and determined. He was lucky to survive the night." He regarded them seriously, as if weighing them up. As if assessing their ability to cope with things. "I'm going to go through his injuries in detail to give you an idea of what we've done. Stop me if you need to ask anything. I'm afraid it's going to sound pretty horrible."

He was still alive. _Don was still alive._ Alan took a deep breath. He had beaten the odds and survived the night. Surely, that had to count in his favour?

_Dear God, let it count in his favour._

"They told us the bullet was lodged in his skull. In the ER, they said that was a good thing?" Alan forced himself to concentrate. He appreciated the man's straightforward approach, and he had a whole list full of questions. "Beats me how it can be, but then again, I'm not a doctor. I'm only his father, so what the hell do I know?"

Doctor Parks smiled a little. "Strange as it seems, Don_ was_ very lucky. Technically, there's no actual brain injury, the bullet didn't penetrate his skull. It impacted in the thickest part of the bone, and diffused into a linear fracture." He paused, "trouble is, it caused a lot of bleeding. Understand that the head is very vascular. Blood got trapped between the fibrous membranes which line the inner surface of the skull."

"So the bullet didn't damage his brain?" Charlie couldn't imagine anything worse. One of his own, most deep-seated fears, was the loss of any kind of brain function.

"Not directly," the surgeon frowned. "Unfortunately, it's a little more complicated. Because Don was left bleeding and untreated for so long, the build-up of blood _did_ cause problems. It's something, which in medical terms, we call a _sub-dural haematoma._ Essentially, the formation of a blood clot within the layers surrounding the brain. The bigger the clot, the more space it needs, so it began to press inward on Don's brain."

"Intracranial pressure," Charlie realised, bitterly. Now he understood a little better. Time had been against them from the onset. It turned out every minute had been vital. From the sounds of things, if Don had been treated immediately after getting shot, then the injury might not have been so serious. Those hours spent lying alone in the quarry might still cost his brother's life.

"Right." Parks nodded. "It's why I had to operate on Don's head. I performed an emergency craniotomy to relieve the build-up of pressure from the haematoma. That was our number one priority, once we'd stabilised his circulatory problems."

"You cut into his brain," Alan knew he had to confirm it, although his psyche shrank away from the words. Images of those corny, old Frankenstein movies, played over inside his _own_ head.

"Into his skull," Parks corrected him. "To stop the bleeding and clear out the clot, and of course, remove the bullet. Other than some bruising where it got a bit crowded out, Don's brain looks fine on the CT scan. We need to monitor him very carefully to make sure he continues to improve. He has a fibre-optic sensor going into his head. This is far less alarming than it sounds. It can tell us if there's any further build-up of intracranial pressure, or _ICP,_ as we call it. We'll leave it in place for up to a week to make sure everything goes well."

"So, what happens next?" The medical jargon was almost hypnotic – luring him into a false sense of security. Alan tried to focus on the prognosis. He needed to hear it in plain terms.

_He needed to hear Don would wake up._

"He'll be moved up to the Neuro ICU shortly, and placed on a ventilator. He's still having trouble breathing due to respiratory insufficiency, and there's some localised infection where the bullet contaminated the bone. Mister Eppes, I have to be honest with you, I'm afraid Don's prognosis is still guarded. I can't tell you how things are going to turn out until I'm sure the _ICP_ won't return."

"I have to know," it was Charlie. His voice was low and tormented. "Hypothetically, let's say Don had been brought into the ER immediately after he'd been shot. You would have performed a CT scan and taken him straight up to the OR?"

"I know where you're going with this, Charlie," Alan leaned forward towards him, but Charlie pulled stubbornly away. "Charlie – this isn't – none of this is your fault. You're not responsible for what happened to your brother. It's thanks to you, we found him at all. Thanks to you, we saved him out at the quarry."

"Tell me," Charlie ignored him, and turned instead to John Parks. "If Don hadn't lain out in the cold all night, then his injuries probably wouldn't be life-threatening?"

"Any head injury is a serious head injury – or has the potential to be one, at least." The surgeon spoke to him frankly. There was no point trying to soften the blow. "It's the basic tenet of Neurology, ignore and dismiss any injury, and you do so at your patient's peril." He looked between Charlie and Alan, sensing a story here. "However, it's likely that _with_ prompt treatment, Don would be doing quite well. There_ is_ a grain of comfort though, something that might help you come to terms with this. One of the reasons Don might have survived is _because_ he contracted hypothermia."

"How so, I don't understand. How could the hypothermia have helped him?" Alan was still worried about Charlie – about the devastation written on his face. If Charlie was planning to take the blame for all this, Alan determined he had another thing coming.

"We now know that mild, or even moderate hypothermia, can cause significant improvement in all the important aspects of brain injury. Physical, neuro-chemical, and crucially, behavioural, _if_ the patient makes it through the actual trauma. It's basically to do with the chemical balance, metabolism, and the stabilisation of the blood/brain barrier." John Parks tried to keep things fairly simple. "Some hospitals are running trials right now, and cooling down their head injury patients. Although it's not suitable for everyone, the results have been encouraging thus far."

"So you're saying Don's night in the desert might have actually helped save his life?" Alan seized on this gratefully, and placed a firm hand on Charlie's shoulder. This time, Charlie let it rest there. This time, he didn't pull away.

"It's very possible."

"Hear that, Charlie?"

Alan tasted the irony. It was bitter, to say the least. One of the things which bothered him most, was the idea of Don, abandoned in the quarry. Alan went over his earlier thoughts again. Funny, how he'd remembered the monsters. A five year old Don had got over them quickly, and they hadn't crossed _his_ mind for years. A sudden image occurred to him and a shiver ran down Alan's spine. He hoped he hadn't recalled the nightmares for a reason. He hoped they hadn't reappeared to Don.

_Out there, cold and hurting. In the darkness, all alone. _

"It isn't your fault," he whispered, softly, repeating the words over to Charlie. "Whatever happens to Donnie now, we found him. We brought him home."

"To what?" Charlie straightened his back a little, and looked directly up at John Parks. "You haven't mentioned the million dollar question, so I guess it's up to me to ask it. If Don lives – if Don makes it through this – what are the chances of brain damage?"

Parks sighed. "I'd rather refer to his chances in terms of a normal recovery. You're right – it's the million dollar question, but I'll answer it as honestly as I can. Don's brain was undamaged by the bullet itself. The CT scan didn't show any lesions. There _is_ some bruising and swelling caused by the ICP. If everything progresses as it should do, and the pressure doesn't start to build again, there's no reason why Don shouldn't recover – if his body gets over the shock." He paused. "I don't want to be pessimistic, but I must stress his condition is still critical. Don has already defied the odds and he did loose a great deal of blood. The strain on his heart was overwhelming, which is why we had a struggle to re-start it."

"So, if he recovers – when he recovers," Alan strove to keep things optimistic. "You're saying he'll get back to normal? That he's going to be just like before?"

"I'm saying there's no way of knowing. Not until Don regains consciousness. Head injuries are totally subjective things – as unique as the person who receives them. Some people wake up and resume their lives as if nothing happened at all. Others, well, they aren't quite so lucky. They're left with significant pathology. It can depend on so many things, chemical balance, oxygen deprivation. The extent of any other injuries, and which part of the brain was hurt."

"And worse case scenario?" Charlie's voice was soft. He scribbled down some equations on the notepad, his writing wild and erratic. But however hard he seemed to try, the numbers refused to add up. He was coping with this as best he could, but he had to know all of the variables. As blunt and terrible as the plain truth was, there was nowhere they could possibly hide from it. To work out the probabilities – he had to know all the facts.

"Some people slide into a coma " John Parks regarded them sympathetically, and his voice became a grade lower. "This can be for a day, or a very long time. They may enter a vegetative state. Obviously, the longer it lasts, the less encouraging the prognosis. If Don survives, this is the worse case scenario. There's a chance he might never wake-up."

_**TBC**_


	15. Chapter 15

**_Set_ _the_ _Fire_**

* * *

**_Part_ _Fifteen_**

'I'm miles from where you are,  
I'm laying down on the cold ground,  
And I – I pray that something picks me up,  
And sets me down in your warm arms . . .'

'_Set_ _the_ _Fire_ _to_ _the_ _Third_ _Bar'_ by Snow Patrol with Martha Wainwright

* * *

_**FBI Offices – Los Angeles – 3 days later**_

Megan made her way into the kitchen, removing her iPod headphones. She looked across at the counter and gave a sigh of heartfelt relief. Thank the lord for small mercies, someone had already made the coffee. She really needed the caffiene this morning, so the stronger and blacker, the better. Sleep had been in short supply lately – a rare and precious commodity. It was only the fifth day since Don had been taken, but it felt like a million years. The whole thing had affected the entire office, not only those on Don's team. He was a well-liked and highly respected figure amongst the LA Division, and a subtle air of anger and disbelief had settled over them all like a blanket. Don had been snatched from right under their noses.

Someone had hurt one of their own.

She had spent most of the previous evening at the hospital, trying to ease the burden on the Eppes. Lord only knew what they were going through – although Megan could hazard a strong guess. These people had become like family to her. She shared a similar pain. The generosity with which they had taken her under their wing never failed to amaze her. Looking back, her experience of family life had left her a trifle jaundiced. The contrast between Alan Eppes and her father had been difficult to come to terms with at first. The love and acceptance he showed Don and Charlie was something she had never known. It had been hard for her, she admitted it, but at the same time, it had restored her faith in parenthood.

Megan took her coffee into the bullpen and saw David was already there. He was working his way through a stack of files with a tired frown on his face. She was worried about him – about all of them – they were none of them coping too well.

"Hey," he looked up as she sat on the edge of his desk. "Anything new from the hospital?"

"No." She shook a weary head at him. "He's still unconscious, still on the ventilator. Nothing had changed when I left there last night. The doctors say he's critical but stable."

"I keep meaning to get out there again. I don't want – I don't want to intrude."

"You won't," she answered, softly. "Alan and Charlie need all the support we can give them right now. I know they'd both be very pleased to see you."

David sighed. "This must be pretty tough on you too, especially with Larry away. You've really stepped up here, Megan, Don would be proud of you. All of this sort of makes me realise, Don keeps us all pretty tight."

"The A team," Megan's voice wobbled as she contemplated his words. "That's what Walt Merrick called Don's team when I interviewed for my position. Scared the hell out of me, I can tell you. Terry Lake was a hard act to follow – made me wonder if I was doing the right thing."

"Don would have told you, quick smart, if he didn't think you were up to it. He may favour the friendly approach on the whole, but he doesn't tolerate fools gladly." David looked at her candidly. "It's obvious how much he respects you. You haven't let him down over this."

"Thank you."

The unexpected sentiment surprised her a little, as a team, they weren't into the group-hug thing, but David's words meant a lot to her. Somehow, he'd hit the nail on the head and sensed what was eating away at her. The one thing which was her main concern, although agonising over it was moot. There were a lot of _'if onlys' _about the whole case, and she worried she had let Don down. _Don. _Megan's eyes shone with unshed tears. It still hurt to concieve what had happened. But there was no point crying over spilt milk, there was still a job to be done.

She straightened her tired shoulders. "One of the best things about having Don as a boss, you're always sure where you stand with him. " She swallowed back the lump in her throat, and forced a bright smile to her lips. "If you do something good, he's generous with his praise, but boy, you really know if you've screwed up."

"I remember when I was first assigned to his team," David said, reminiscently. "I'd heard a lot of impressive things about him, and I guess I was a little awestruck. Fugitive recovery, Albuquerque, he had the reputation of being a real hardass." He gave a quiet laugh. "And he was. I'd come straight out of Merrick's department and Don thought I'd been sent to report back on him."

"And had you?" She regarded him curiously.

"Yeah, I guess I had." David was frank. "It was a multiple rape and murder case. The media were all over it. Don would have been perfectly within his rights to keep me checking licence plates forever. Instead, he gave me that look of his, and asked me what team I was batting for."

Megan made a sympathetic face. "Ouch – I know _that_ look."

"He was just being straight with me, and you don't come across that very often. When I told him that, yeah, I _was_ on his team, he took me at my word. Saved my life the day after," David finished up, matter-of-factly. "I knew then, I'd landed on my feet. I worked the hell off my ass to impress him."

Both of them were sombre for a moment as the reality of the situation hit home. There was still a very real chance Don would not be returning. It sounded like they were sitting _shiva_, reminiscing, reciting stories. _No, _Megan told herself firmly, as she tried to push the errant thought away. So okay, he was listed as critical, and something central was missing without him, but he was tough, a real fighter. She wasn't ready to write him off yet.

"Anything back from the quarry?" Time to put a stop to this, and get back to the business in hand. The best thing they could do for Don right now, was to wrap up the Redondo case for good. If the fates were unkind, and Don didn't return, there would be time enough for grief later. Besides, he was _still_ the boss here. If he thought for a moment, they were growing slack, he would definitely not be very happy.

"Nope - nothing except the leather jacket. CODIS confirmed it was Redondo's blood, but it still doesn't prove the bastard's dead."

"Hmm, I'm really not liking this." Megan crinkled her forehead in thought. "Especially after what happened out at Cal. State. to Doreen Moody's son. Think we'll pay Bobby Lomax a visit, and see what he has to say."

David frowned. "Think he ordered the hit on the secretary's son? I wouldn't put anything past him. Still can't believe he's gonna walk away from this – that the DA can't pin anything on him."

"Lomax has been very clever. All roads lead back to Redondo. So much so, it makes you wonder if Lomax had this planned all along. If he deliberately screwed up the hit on Don, it would pin the blame squarely on his boss. If Carmine got to walk out of court scot-free, we'd still have him up on kidnap and murder one."

"Which would leave Lomax free to take over the empire." David nodded, with comprehension. "It kind of puts a different slant on what happened out at the quarry. Once Lomax figured Redondo would run, he paid Thomas to fix the detonations. All in all, a mighty convenient way of killing two birds with one stone. Or perhaps I should say - a whole pile of stone. Damn!"

Megan knew what he was thinking. If only they'd taken Thomas into custody. Then maybe they'd know the real truth. Know who had paid him to re-set the timers. "You had no choice," she quickly reassured him. "Thomas almost took our heads off with that shotgun back there. There was no way he was going to surrender."

David smacked his desk in frustration. "It would've been nice to get Lomax as well."

"We will." Her voice was flat and grim. "It may not be right now, but we'll get him. The man is operating on borrowed time, whether or not Don makes it."

* * *

_**Neurological ICU – Huntington Hospital**_

Once you got used to the background noise, to the rhythmic whir and hum of the machinery, it was almost abnormally quiet, here inside the ICU. The muted lights added to the atmosphere, they were strangely and peculiarly hypnotic. It was chilly too, in Don's cubicle. The temperature was therapeutically low. Charlie shivered and studied his brother's face. He wondered if Don felt cold.

They'd been coming in for over three days now - him and dad - taking turns, and together. Sitting here, playing the waiting game, _or the praying game,_ as dad called it. Charlie took a shuddering breath, and tried not to let it overwhelm him. It was getting so hard to maintain a brave front when his walls were crumbling away.

His whole world was based on the application of logic. He was a Math professor, for God's sake. Why couldn't dad understand this? He just didn't do the prayer thing. He couldn't start believing in miracles just because it was Don in the bed. Don in the bed. _It_ _was_ _Don_ _in_ _the_ _bed_. Charlie knew it had been inevitable. Up until now, Don had beaten the odds. His brother had been a walking anomaly.

He knew dad was trying hard to understand why he looked at things the way he did. Why everything had to be broken down to fit into the form of an equation. In truth, Charlie couldn't answer him. He only knew the numbers kept him sane. They were the one, true constant he clung onto, as his whole world eroded away. It was more than a little ironic he'd been working on cognitive theory. It seemed like a rather cruel twist of the knife in light of what had happened to Don. Charlie stared hard at his brother again. It was strange how one-dimensional he looked. A flat white face on a flat white sheet, all the subtle shifts and nuances gone.

John Parks had been pretty candid with them. He'd warned them not to expect too much, too soon. Don's body had been through a severe ordeal and needed plenty of time to recover. The ventilator was helping with that. _'Look upon it as a positive thing.' _A tool in the battle to save Don's life, not a terrifying, alien entity.

Charlie tried, he really did, but the ventilator frightened him to bits. He sat there, and watched, as it breathed for his brother. He knew that without it, Don would die. _Don._ Had the cold really helped to keep him alive? It was a comforting thought in a weird sort of way, but was there really any truth in it? Charlie had subsequently done some research and read a little about it on the internet. Possible. It was possible. The results of cooling were encouraging thus far. In the whole awful scheme of everything, it offered Charlie a grain of consolation.

He remembered his immediate reaction when Colby had told him Don was missing. The recollection of that wasted time still filled him with despair. He'd fallen into a kind of fugue. A prisoner locked inside his own head. Too upset to walk straight, let alone think, and all the while the clock had been ticking. Charlie was forced to acknowledge it; he'd wasted several precious hours. Hours he could have spent searching for Don – hours which might have made a difference.

He regarded his brother's face again for what felt like the thousandth time. Don's skin was so pale that it merged into one with the crisp, white hospital linen. It was a bizarre kind of luxury to look at Don like this. _To really study his brother. _Don was so guarded, so private; Charlie rarely, if ever, got the chance. There were more lines around Don's eyes than he remembered – although they still crinkled when he smiled. _'Don's smile lights up the room like a hundred watt light bulb' _– or so mom had been fond of saying.

Funny, what you thought of at times like these. How you dredged things up out of your memory. For the life of him, Charlie couldn't recall seeing much of that radiant smile lately. Instead, Don looked persistently careworn. He was always so tired and in a hurry; bowed under with the weight of the world. Charlie thought about that a little. _What was really going on there? _

Don had appointed himself both guardian and protector. It was a burden he seemed determined to carry single-handedly. Charlie knew dad had been getting concerned, but to be honest, he hadn't given it too much thought. Don was the strongest person he knew. Both mentally and physically tough. There had never been a bully or a problem too big that his brother hadn't failed to dispatch it. And Charlie had always envied him that. The ability to deal the hand life dealt him. Don always stepped right up to the plate and was willing to go into bat.

At least, it suited Charlie to keep thinking that.

_Was dad right?_ Charlie shifted, uncomfortably. He was suddenly assailed with doubts. Lately, his own life had been moving ahead at a successful and satisfying rate. He felt more settled than he had done in a long while, more confident in his abilities. Perhaps he'd come to terms with mom's death, or just maybe, he'd grown up at last. There was CalSci, a series of lecture tours, a sudden breakthrough on his Cognitive Theory. And then, of course, there was Amita. It had started to gel between them. After the longest, most awkward courtship in history, they were finally together as a couple. He still wasn't sure if she was _'the one,'_ but things had definitely changed for the better. The two of them were undeniably closer. Their relationship had shifted up a gear.

Other than when he was working on a case, he'd seen less and less of Don. It had honestly never occurred to him anything might be wrong. But then again, Don would never tell him. His brother was notoriously secretive. His whole life could be in ruins and he'd still insist he was fine. _Fine._ Charlie almost hated the word. It was Don's patent answer to everything. Clearly, over the last few months, Don had been anything but.

Don was so good at hiding things, or had he – _Charlie_ - been wilfully blind? Too busy pursuing his own goals and ideals that somehow, he'd left Don behind.

Persistent images haunted him now. It was all becoming so much clearer. When he thought about it coolly and logically, the evidence had been right under his nose. Charlie went over the last six months, consumed by anger and remorse. Why the hell was his brother so reticent? And why the hell hadn't he noticed?

_Don, sat alone in the darkness – wide awake and drinking beer. The sound of the SUV long after midnight, gone again, before they came down to breakfast._

There was the fact they always ran out of Tylenol. He knew dad didn't suffer with headaches. It was a minor source of irritation to keep finding the bathroom cabinet bare. Charlie wondered just who had been kidding whom. He didn't much like the answer.

Thank God, Don had reunited with his family when he'd come back from Albuquerque. He'd taken a demotion, left friends and fiancée, and returned home to help mom and dad. Charlie didn't discount himself here; he knew he'd been part of the equation. They'd worried about him for too much of the time - _time which should have been lavished on mom. _

He had not been there for his mother – but he vowed he would be here for Don. Charlie knew he _had_ changed over the last three years and a lot of it was down to his brother. Don had given him space and acceptance. The confidence to flex his wings. And all the while, he and dad had been one step behind him, just waiting to catch him if he fell.

Charlie felt the breath leave his body. He realised then, dad and Don had been afraid. Perhaps even more so, after mom's death, but almost certainly, for the majority his life. And if that was so, it meant mom had worried too. _That_ hurt him more than anything. To know the last precious monthes of her life had probably been centred on him - Charlie gave a small moan of despair. He remembered Don's frantic reaction after the '_Charm School Boys,' _fiasco. The fierceness of his brother's anxiety as he forced a confrontation in the yard. Charlie's epiphany was black-laced with bitterness, as at long last, he acknowledged why.

His family were worried that one day he'd fracture. Broken under the weight of his genius. He supposed he'd come pretty close to it, in the dark days surrounding mom's death.

So now, he understood the definition of _fine._ Or at least with regard to his brother. Don took the role of protector too seriously to waste time looking after himself.

Charlie reached out and touched Don's hand. The one free of tubes and IV ports. The fingers were long and elegant. Piano player's hands. They reminded him so much of his mother. If Don - _when Don_ - recovered from this, when he finally decided to wake-up, things were going to be a little different around here. It was time he and Don had a talk.

Don's eyelids looked almost translucent. Blue-veined and painfully vulnerable. If he opened his eyes, they were the colour of sherry, a rich, Spanish Amontillado. The dark eyelashes were long like a girl's – incongruous in such a physical man. Charlie studied them intently, watching closely for any sign of movement. Any flicker, any hint of REM sleep, which might signal Don's brain was still active.

_Don, I hope you're in there._

Nothing. Of course, there was nothing. Don was under heavy sedation. His eyelashes remained immobile. A stark contrast to the pallor of his skin. Two flutterless, black insect wings, closed firmly on the windows to his soul.

Perhaps some of the anaesthetic gases were still floating around in the atmosphere. Charlie gave a slightly hysterical laugh - he was getting way too fanciful here. _Whatever happened to formal logic? _Aristotle would most certainly, not approve. _The existence of the human soul? _There was nothing deductive in this theory.

But when it came to the notion of logical consequence, Charlie was fast learning a sequence all his own. _X results of necessity from Y and Z. It would be impossible for X to be false, when Y and Z are true. _

Whichever way he studied Don, something vital was definitely missing. Something - the intrinsic core element. An elusive, essential spark. He hesistated over the actual word, but call it what you will. He knew his brother well enough to be absolutely certain of this premise. According to Aristotle, this then, was the _valid argument._ Looking at Don, right here, right now, there could only be one logical _X_-type conclusion.

_The deduction was in favour of a soul. _

Charlie had a sudden yearning for Larry. Larry always understood the way his brain worked. He would love the chance to dissect Charlie's argument and come up with a deduction of his own. But Larry wasn't here, and Don might not be, in-spite of all the scary machines. Charlie tightened his grip on his brother's hand. There was a very real chance Don had already left him.

"Please, Don, please don't leave me," Charlie's resolution almost deserted him. He gripped hold of Don's hand even tighter, he was shaking, he wished he could stop.

It was not fine. It was so not fine. Just when he thought he had the definition nailed, things might never be _fine_ again.

And no stupid equation would change that. For once, the numbers were failing him. It was so cold here inside the ICU.

He just wanted Don to wake up.

_**TBC**_


	16. Chapter 16

**_Set the Fire_**

* * *

**_Chapter Sixteen_**

I'm miles from where you are,  
I'm laying down on the cold ground,  
And I – I pray that something picks me up,  
And sets me down in your warm arms . . .'

'Set the Fire to the Third Bar' Snow Patrol with Martha Wainwright

* * *

_**Neurological ICU – Huntington Hospital – 5 Days Later**_

Alan waited as patiently as possible while John Parks finished washing his hands. The nurses were busy re-positioning Don, so he got up and moved across to the window. He looked out at the view spread below him. He'd learned to be grateful for it. In the muddle of nightmare days and nights, he'd spent many long hours standing here, glad of both moon and sunlight and the shifting palate of sky. Some of the cubicles had inside walls and no natural light shone into them. There was nothing except for the violet glow and flashing illumination from the monitors. Alan thanked God for small mercies - relieved that Don had not been placed in such a room. However much of a delusion it was, at least the sunlight helped dispel some of the gloominess.

Outside, it was a lovely day. The sky was a wash of pale blue. The colours seemed brighter, sharper somehow, or perhaps, he just appreciated them more. The vista before him was easy on the eye and he was humbly grateful for it. Anything – _anything _which helped ease the pain was better than nothing at all.

Huntington was pleasantly appointed, and surrounded by fine-looking grounds. The gardens were a sensual riot of nature, well-stocked with flowers and trees. By now, Alan was fairly familiar with them. He'd spent enough time staring out of these windows. The sweep of the trees gave him solace, as he drew a little comfort from their beauty.

John Parks had finished at the washbasin, and the nurses quietly left the room. Alan leant up against the glass for support. _This then, was the moment of truth._ For a second, he longed desperately for Charlie, but Charlie was sleeping at home. It had been hard enough persuading him to leave in the first place; his younger son had been a bulwark of strength. _No,_ Alan simply didn't have the heart to call him back to the hospital again. _Especially not, if the news was bad._ There would be plenty of time to tell him later.

_In fact, all the time in the world._

If the worse came to the worse, and Don needed special care, it was going to be a fulltime job. It would mean dedicating the rest of their lives to a shattering and heartbreaking task.

"So, Alan, how's the neck?"

John Parks wiped his hands dry, and interrupted his grim reverie. They'd quickly progressed to first name terms, and the two men got on very well. Parks was a tall, no-nonsense Englishman, who favoured the straight-talking approach. From Alan's point of view, it was a real relief to deal with somebody so candid. A doctor who spoke to him openly, who actually liked to call a spade a spade.

He fingered the hated neck-brace. He considered it his badge of honour. Compared to what Don was going through, a wry-neck was nothing in the scheme of things. All the same, it was driving him crazy. He could barely turn his head. And, too many nights, spent scrunched up here on the divan . . . well, in truth, he knew they couldn't be helping. But what was a little physical pain compared to the scars on his heart?

He made a laconic face at Parks, and was careful _not_ to shrug his shoulders. It was easy to skirt the real issue. Far easier to talk about him. "Stiff as hell," he said, with frustration. "Feels like my head's falling off."

"Well, you're in the right place if that happens," the Neurologist expressed mild amusement. "Give it another week or two, and keep taking the anti-inflammatories. It would help if you went to see the physio. My spies tell me you haven't shown up there yet. Charlie can always spell you with Don, and it really will speed things along."

"I know. I promise I 'll get down there. It's just that . . . "

Words failed him, and he gestured over at Don. He _did_ know, of course he did. He ought to go to see the physiotherapist and get his stupid neck sorted out. It wasn't merely a case of being stubborn, just that his priorities were elsewhere.

Alan moved back across the room and resumed his seat next to the bed. He picked up Don's hand and held onto it firmly, willing some life to return. _'Hey, dad, what you doing?' _He could almost hear Don protesting - almost see the look on his face. A certain shade of pleased embarrassment, Alan could picture it well. It was a look Don always adopted whenever Alan showed him physical affection.

_Oh my son, I need you to pull through this. I miss you, Donnie, so much. _Alan lifted Don's hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it softly and tenderly. _Skin to skin - flesh of my flesh._ The touch was almost symbolic. He felt no discomfiture in front of John Parks. He'd gone way past caring what anyone else thought. However good or bad the latest news might be, he really needed the strength of contact for this.

He took a breath. "John, please. Tell me?"

"It's good, Alan." Parks didn't waste any time with preamble. "The results are looking optimistic. Don's ICP is almost back to normal and his cerebral blood flow is excellent," he smiled, glad to be the bearer of glad tidings for a change. Most especially, to the man in front of him, whom he'd very much come to respect. "I'm really pleased with this morning's CT scan. The pictures show the swelling has decreased. Don's brain is back where it should be."

Alan closed his eyes for a second as the room and its contents danced away. The words were like a miracle – most of his prayers come true. Somehow, over the last few days, he'd been bracing himself for the worst. For a life without his older son. Even though Don survived the gunshot wound, he might not have survived the brain injury. His body may have continued to function as a shell, but without the real essence of Don.

He felt John Parks' hand on his shoulder. "Easy, there, Alan, take a minute to breathe. It's looking good but it's not conclusive. We won't know if there's any long-term pathology until Don decides to wake up." He paused. "At the best, he'll be confused and disorientated. He probably won't remember very much. Don't be surprised if he gets upset – his emotions will be very labile."

_Very labile._ Well, that was rich. Alan knew Don wouldn't be the only one. When you got right down to basics, he was feeling pretty labile himself. He scrubbed at the sudden dampness in his eyes, and managed a watery chuckle. "My Donnie, getting all emotional? I'll believe that one when I see it. My son suffers from the delusion he has to be strong for the whole world."

_And most of the time, we let him._

The acknowledgement gave him a sharp pang of pain. It hurt Alan to face the truth. In the days leading up to, and just after Margaret's death, both he and Charlie had depended on Don.

_Had Don even cried when she'd finally died?_

Alan couldn't remember. He'd been floundering, drowning in his own grief. Too broken and shell-shocked to function. Don had dealt with the paperwork. Don had arranged the funeral. The only real contribution he'd made to the proceedings was to insist on a specific piece of poetry.

"I'm going to remove the ICP sensor and lighten his sedation." John had carried on talking. "His blood gas levels have reached the stage where I'd like to try and wean him off the ventilator. We'll re-set the machine so Don can breathe for himself - it'll only kick in if it needs to. If he goes on too long without taking a breath, then the machine will continue to breathe for him."

"If you lighten his sedation, will it help him wake up?" Alan figured _he_ could do with a top-up. Preferably with something amber-coloured, and labelled_ Single Malt. _

He was still coming to terms with his memories - still fighting the lingering guilt. For the first time, he wondered about Charlie. About his indomitable strength and resolution. Perhaps Charlie had been fighting his own inner battle, which was why he'd been so stalwart throughout?

"Let's take this one small step at a time. First, I want him breathing by himself. I'm pretty hopeful he'll start fighting the ventilator, but this doesn't always happen straight away."

"Okay," Alan nodded, it made sense to him. He was quite the reluctant expert.

_Please God, if it went the way he hoped it would, he'd never have to see a ventilator again._

* * *

_**Neurological High Dependency Unit –Huntington Memorial Hospital**_

He was dreaming, strange and vivid dreams, about being late for an appointment. Trying to run, but his legs wouldn't work. Talking, but the words made no sound.

There was something – he couldn't remember. Something hostile on the periphery of his vision. It was after him - always after him. It stalked him relentlessly with malevolent intent. He twisted in an effort to evade it, but it was gaining on him, forever getting closer.

He knew there was no escaping it. The evil was determined to hurt him. It was out there – waiting in the darkness. The monster hidden under his bed.

_"Please - " _he managed to force the word. It was useless. There was no one else around to hear him. They'd left him, abandoned him somewhere. He had to deal with the monster alone.

_But then again, hadn't he always? _

No, there was something – someone. He tried his best to remember. Someone, solid and comforting, who was always there for him.

_Dad. _

"I'm here, son."

The words sounded so firm and reassuring, but he couldn't give into illusion. He was out here alone in the bitter cold. _No one was coming to save him._ The pain returned with a sudden roar. Threatening, and overwhelming. He was drowning, being dragged under, sucked into the vortex again. It was too hard to be aware of anything much when his head was being squeezed in a vice.

"Don, can you hear me?"

There it was, the same voice again. So caring, so safe and kind. It was tender and trembling with emotion. So much so, he really wanted to answer. He felt a wonderful sensation of warmth on his hand. The consolation of another human touch. _Soothing – stroking – soothing._ Familiar, the contact was so familiar. His eyes filled with rare and unaccustomed tears. It felt like his dad's _magic thumb._

"Donnie?"

He felt himself slipping away again; back towards the cold and the darkness. _No,_he struggled against it, afraid of the loneliness and pain. Reality shifted, and memories jumbled, as he leaned into the source of comfort.

_Going to meet dad at Echo Park – what the hell had happened to him?_

It was no good, he couldn't remember. His head felt full of holes like a sieve. The memories swirled and then drained away like the water from a pan of spaghetti. _Spaghetti._ Now, that was pretty bizarre. Why the hell did he just think of spaghetti?

_Did you know, that if you snap a piece of spaghetti, it always breaks into more than two pieces?_

So, why did that ring a bell?

"My head," he was able to whisper. God alone only knew how. Clearly, someone had slit his throat with a knife while he was down, and still out of things. "Throat," he added, as an afterthought, "hurts."

He sounded really pathetic, but Don didn't know which was worse. The relentless hammering inside his skull or the razor blades scraping his larynx.

"I know it must be hurting. Just try and open your eyes."

"Dad?"

_Was it really dad's voice - was it really?_ Don let himself drift on the tide. Lulled back into safe waters as he succumbed to a feeling of relief. His dad – his dad had come for him. To protect him from all the monsters. Just like when he was a little boy in the cavernous shadows of his room.

"I'm right here, beside you. We've got you. I promise you're safe with us now. I'd really like you to try for me, son. I'd like you to open your eyes."

_Okay, he could do this. Right, he really could, if he tried. _Don made a supreme effort._ Way to go_, _that wasn't too hard._

He blinked in the searing brightness, and slowly, things swung into focus. Soft sheets, the smell of antiseptic. He recognised it only too well. It wasn't the darkness, it wasn't the cold ground – he could have cried with relief. His face was already strangely damp with something which felt like tears. For once, he didn't try and stop them – he was too tired and beat up to care.

"Saved me. Monsters . . ." Don was aware he was rambling, but his thoughts wouldn't connect with his tongue. What the hell was wrong with his wiring? Everything felt so fucked up.

"Oh, Donnie, they're gone. I promise you. There are no monsters in here."

_Well, good, that was reassuring. _He could always rely on dad. Perhaps he could help with a few other things – like how to get his brain up and running?

He blinked, and the light became more bearable. A little less interrogation-room bright. A hospital - he was definitely in a hospital - that might explain why he felt so lousy. In-spite of the pain and bewilderment, the loss of memory frightened him. The total confusion was the worse thing. Don felt he was grasping at straws.

"What happened to me?" He sounded so weak - so small and unlike himself. Like a child waking up from a nightmare, terrified and out of control. All he could remember was the cold and the darkness; the hard ground eating into his bones. A sense of utter abandonment. He'd been so totally alone. The shivering began deep down in his muscles as the frigid desolation returned.

_" – temperature's still higher than I'd like, but he is responding to the antibiotics - "_ Another voice, one he didn't recognise, talking with a clipped English accent.

A temperature. So, that explained the shivering. The racking, exhausting tremors. But if he was running a fever, then why did he feel so damned cold?

"Cold."

Dear God, he was being peevish, like a monosyllabic teenager. He just didn't have the energy or cohesiveness to string a whole sentence together. And besides, on a slightly more worrying note, he wasn't entirely sure he could. His vision began to sharpen as his senses hardened and clarified. There were shadows - _people_ - standing over him, and a frightening array of equipment. He was definitely in a hospital bed, hooked up to a whole mess of tubes.

_Bad then._ It must be something bad. _God, he really wished he could remember._ Whatever it was, involved his head, although his ribs were painfully sore. He felt as though he'd been hit by a truck or a large house had fallen on top of him.

"We have to keep you cool, Don. Have to get that temperature down."

It was dad again, speaking to him slowly. In careful, measured tones. What was dad doing, talking like this, as though he might not understand the words? He tracked the direction of the beloved voice and blinked up into his father's eyes. Maybe things were the wrong way round – Alan's appearance was terrible. He looked thin-faced and greyer than usual . . .

_Wait – why was he wearing a neck-brace? _

Don struggled to sift through his memories. _Had the same house fallen on dad?_

"Pop," he tried to reach over the counterpane, but his left arm refused to cooperate. Eventually, he raised a finger or two, but nothing else was working at all. "Dad," he began to panic. _Perhaps he'd had some kind of stroke?_ All the years of stress and relentless pressure - had they finally caught up with him at last?

"Don," it was the Englishman speaking. He was obviously some kind of doctor. He came and stood next to Alan, his clear gaze fixed on Don's hand. "I want you to try that again for me. Grip my fingers as tight as you can. _Tighter._ Okay, thanks, that's enough."

"My hand," Don shifted with agitation. What did English-guy mean, _it was enough?_

It wasn't anywhere near enough. _It wasn't anything at all._ Nothing - _nothing_ was working. Not the way it was supposed to. He tried to lift his arm again; he was beginning to feel deeply afraid now. Neither brain nor body was functioning. He couldn't get his damned hand to move. His head was starting to hurt again. The pain forced him to close his eyes. All his deepest fears were circling like sharks in the water.

He could not – _he would not_ _be dependent._

"No," dad sounded really distressed. "Don't do this, please open your eyes. You have to try and stay awake, son. Please – I_ need_ you to open your eyes."

Don kept his eyelids resolutely shut and turned his face into the pillow. The intransigent cold had come back with a vengeance, dragging him down into dark waters. He was sinking through layers of obsidian to the waiting teeth of the sharks. This thing – _whatever had happened to him _– he was obviously useless, a vegetable. His body was fucking worthless. His brain scrambled like a plate of eggs.

Don let himself drift off into the twilight zone, too wretched to fight or even care.

"Don?"

_Dad, please - please. Just leave me alone._ He sent out a silent plea. It was too much – too much to deal with right now.

Yet another variation of monster.

**_TBC_**


	17. Chapter 17

**_Set the Fire_**

* * *

**_Chapter Seventeen_**

I'm miles from where you are,  
I'm laying down on the cold ground,  
And I – I pray that something picks me up,  
And sets me down in your warm arms . . .'

_'Set the Fire to the Third Bar'_ Snow Patrol with Martha Wainwright

* * *

_**FBI Offices – Los Angeles – 2 weeks later**_

Charlie stepped out of the elevator and walked across to the security checkpoint. To his surprise, the usually impassive guard greeted him like a long-lost friend.

"Hey, Doctor Eppes, good to see you. How's Special Agent Eppes doin' now?"

"Um, thank you, he's doing much better." His heart sinking, Charlie fumbled with his security pass and moved on quickly through the checkpoint. Truth was, although he knew it would be inevitable, he didn't want to discuss Don's condition with people who were relative strangers.

It was just as bad inside the office. He was inundated with questions and well-wishers. In a way, it was nice they all cared about his brother, but it still felt awkwardly intrusive. For a moment, he almost turned and fled. He just wished they'd leave him alone. But instead, he made his way to the bullpen, pausing on the threshold for a second. Even though the cubicle was occupied, it looked oddly empty without Don.

"Charlie," Megan got to her feet at once and steered him over to Don's vacant chair. "Glad you could make it. There have been a few developments since we last talked, and I wanted to update you." Her eyes softened as she took in his appearance, noting the almost palpable strain. "I guess coming here isn't easy. I'm sorry, I should have thought."

"No, it's all right." Charlie put up a hand, and took a deep breath. "Guys, it's really all right." He trailed his fingertips over the surface of Don's desk, taking strength from his brother's invisible presence. Trust Megan to be so perceptive – but he didn't want to be analysed now. Things were still too fragile, and besides, what the heck could he tell them?

_Yeah, Don's doing much better. Unless, of course, you count the depression. Physically, he's healing quite nicely – he just refuses to talk to us._

He straightened and forced his expression into neutral. May as well get this over with. Some good news about Redondo might go a little way towards helping Don out of the fugue, or whatever it was, he'd fallen into. His brother's team were anything but stupid. They must guess what was going on. It was getting harder to find valid excuses for keeping them away from the hospital.

_Don was not yet completely conscious. His fever was still too high. He couldn't give a reliable statement because he was suffering from amnesia. _

All of these reasons were partially true. And some of them were partially lies. Don should have been ready to talk to his team but he was locked in his own private hell. _It was not unexpected,_ according to John Parks, _withdrawal of this kind, was not unusual._ They must be patient. It was going to take some time. Don needed their encouragement and support.

"Charlie?"

He looked up at Megan and nodded. There was a wealth of understanding on her face. Maybe later, he would talk to her in confidence. He was so tired of shouldering this alone. "So, you have some news about the case?"

"Forensics are pulling out of the quarry. They've sifted through every grain of sand, and found only minimal evidence. The leather jacket with Redondo's blood and some other random fragments of bone. They're human - nearly all adolescent male - other than that, virtually untraceable. So far, there's no DNA match on CODIS, and no viable dental samples to work with. Their skeletons would have been pulverised by sheer force of repeated explosions."

"Yeah," Colby pulled a face. "And, plus the fact that over the years, they would have been turned into aggregates. Most of them probably ended up in the walls of somebody's house."

"The majority of the bones are fairly recent," Megan paused, and shot him a small frown, "but not all. The Forensic Anthropologist dated some of them back more than ten years."

David was sombre. "They probably belong to some of the poor kids Carmine used and abused. We're working on cold case missing files, and trying to trace living relatives. Who knows, we could still get lucky; name one or two from their DNA."

Charlie was silent for a moment as the grim implications sank in. If he and dad had delayed any longer, then some of those bones would be Don's. Colby's words may have been a shade thoughtless, but they certainly helped to clarify matters. If they'd been later - just a few minutes later - then Don's fate would have been sealed. For a second, he was flooded with anger. His memories were too explicit. The terrible, twisting anxiety, still knotted his insides with panic. He wondered if he'd ever completely recover from the guilt and gut-wrenching fear.

"Then, there's no _real_ proof Redondo's dead. We still don't know for sure."

"As sure as we can be with no body," David shifted, uncomfortably. "You said it yourself, he was too close to the explosion. It's unlikely anyone could have survived."

"Unlikely, but not wholly impossible." Charlie couldn't help sounding pissed. "Forgive me for wanting some exactitude here, but this isn't just _any _old case. Carmine Redondo hurt my brother. He tried – he tried to kill Don. Knowing he might still be out there doesn't fill me with a great deal of confidence."

"Even if Redondo survived the blast, he can't return to Los Angeles. He's too well known here in California. If we didn't get him, then his own mob would. Either Lomax, or the Russians. He'd be arrested, maybe even assassinated. And Carmine isn't that stupid."

_Even if Redondo survived the blast?_ Charlie turned back to Megan, wild-eyed. He hadn't missed the touch of unease in her voice. An edge – no, a hint of awkwardness, and something else, was it disquiet?

"What is it? What aren't you telling me?"

"Charlie, I don't want you to be alarmed - "

Her words had entirely the opposite effect. Charlie felt his heart start to race. It was funny – _or, it would be in any other situation_ - how paradoxical that simple statement was.

"It probably doesn't mean anything," she had the grace to look faintly embarrassed, "but on the afternoon you pulled Don out of the quarry, the TSA and _Homeland Security_ boys tracked a light aircraft out of Bakersfield. It had entered a flight-plan to Tampa but never showed up there. The plane was later found abandoned, on a small private airfield near Miami. We followed-up on the ownership documentation and traced it back through various corporate trails. In the end, we managed to zero it down to a company registered out of Fresno."

"Let me guess," Charlie was cynical. "Owned by one Carmine Redondo."

"Doesn't mean he was on board, though." Colby spoke up in a clumsy attempt to allay Charlie's growing distress. "The pilot coulda got cold feet, and literally, taken-off out of there."

"Or else Redondo made it out of the country. Most likely, the Caribbean." Charlie knew he was being sarcastic, but this was not what he wanted to hear.

"We still have an APB out on him," Megan stepped-in, hurriedly, trying to pour oil on troubled waters; "although it's likely he died at the quarry. The Bureau in Florida are checking the passenger lists on any relevent flights out of the country. The DA's not taking anything for granted. And Charlie, neither are we."

"But meanwhile," Charlie was bitter. "Lomax, Miller, and now possibly, Redondo. It looks like all of them will stroll off Scot-free. These men ordered a hit on Don. We know it, and the DA knows it. An FBI agent takes a bullet in the head and the known perpetrators get away with it. What's wrong with this picture, Megan? Go on, tell me, how is this fair?"

"It's _not _fair."

He watched her turn to face David and Colby, and motion them out of the bullpen. She had clearly sensed he was close to the edge, and wanted to speak with him alone.

"Charlie," she placed her hand on his arm, but he couldn't help pulling away from her. _She really should have remembered. It made him uneasy to be touched._ "Nothing that's happened to Don is fair, nothing - _nada_ - zilch. But the DA cut a deal with Lomax to get access to Redondo's connections. It's provided us with solid information about some of his slime ball customers. Paedophiles, human-traffickers, and links we_ can _stop, right now. In light of what Carmine did to Don, it might not seem like retribution, but maybe to some abused child out there, it's the difference between life or death."

"And Don," Charlie lowered his voice. "What about my brother? Why don't you tell me, Megan, what justice does he get? Would it be any different if he'd died in that quarry? Would his killers still walk, if he was dead?"

"But he didn't." She was watching him closely now, like a specimen slide under a microscope. "Don didn't die out there. I know he's hurting – _we all are _– but he's safe now. Thanks to you and your dad."

"No – you're wrong. You don't know anything." Charlie slammed the desk-top with frustration. "You don't know anything at all. Don's hurting all right, just like you said. So much, he's refusing to talk to us. He's turned his emotions inward and hardly said a word since he woke up. It feels - it feels like we still lost him. As if part of him died out at that quarry."

"He suffered a life-threatening injury, and survived a dreadful ordeal. To come through something as traumatic as Don has – Charlie, it's going to take a while."

"You don't have to remind me of what Don went through." Charlie was pale with anger. "I saw what they did and where they left him – out there, in the middle of a blast zone. I sat by his bedside night after night, clinging on, when they didn't think he'd make it. I know what he went through, Megan, and I know the reason he survived."

"What reason is that?"

To her credit, Megan held her ground, and gazed back at him without flinching. He wondered how she could remain so calm when the whole world was collapsing around them.

"The same reason it always is. The abiding force behind Don. He'd try his damnedest to stay alive in order to protect dad and me. To save us from having to worry, to keep us wrapped up in cotton wool. I bet he even feels guilty for letting us down. For getting himself get shot in the first place."

"You sound as though you resent it?"

"I do!"

He flung the sentiment back at her, at the same time, both furious and dismayed. The simmering anger below the surface, bursting out in just two words. Charlie crooked his elbows onto his knees and lowered his head into his hands. _'_

_Oh, God, what would Megan think of him? _

He couldn't believe what he'd said. The emotion was out in the open. It was too late for him to retract it. Too late to take it back. Besides, he didn't want to. It was true – he _did_ resent it. Not the motive behind Don's actions, or the reason he behaved as he did, but hindsight could be a double-edged sword when it brought forth the spectres of the past.

Childhood images of him and Don. Never as many as there should be. In that long ago world of structure and form, his brother had remained an anomaly. The main equation had been him and mom – she had always been his constant. Dad had been a predictable integer, providing love and peripheral support. But Don – Don was the variable.

_The indefinable unknown. _

He'd always been Charlie's champion. Charlie's bloody-nosed, knight errant. At school, Don had dealt with his fair share of trouble, seeing-off the bullies on Charlie's behalf. Fiercely protective of his brother in public, but in private, he kept him firmly at arms length. _Or to qualify, _Charlie amended, _at emotional arms length. _

On the whole, Don had been kind enough. A diligent, big brother. Sure, they'd had their up and downs, but, by and large, their worlds had never overlapped. Don had baseball and a large crowd of friends. Charlie had tutors and numbers. Don was sturdy and independent. _Charlie was always with mom. _

And there it was, irrefutable. The invisible shadow between them. Unspoken, never out in the open. Too painful to be ignored. If Don resented losing his mother, he had not said a word to Charlie. It was folded away inside him. Hidden deep in his heart. The layers had built up over the years, hardening on top of each other. Along with his need to take care of his loved ones, Don learned how to take care of himself.

_Or rather, to keep himself to himself._ To insulate his emotions from public view and secrete them where no one could see. Always the tough one, always the rock. _But in the end, who protected the protector?_

Charlie gave Megan a desperate look. He knew she was waiting for him to speak, but she didn't help him out of his misery. From time to time, working alongside a profiler was a real pain in the ass. He sighed, and considered things frankly, some of the rage dissipating. It wasn't Don he was angry with – he was hurting in conjunction with his brother. Up until now, he'd been suppressing the pain, swept up in his need to be strong.

_To be like Don. _

And it had been working, mostly, this outward show of resolve, but hearing the news about Redondo had rocked him down to the core. Currently, the walls were crumbling and he was teetering on shakier ground.

He pictured Don's fear in the underground Parking Lot, his determination to fight off his assailants. The shocking moment of cold, hard truth, when they'd pointed the gun at his head. Don must have believed he was going to die. It was almost a certainty.

_'A man aimed a gun at your head and fired. The fact that you survived is an anomaly, and is unlikely to be the outcome of a second, such encounter.'_

Charlie felt someone walk over his grave. His own words returned to haunt him. He wondered if Don had remembered them as the bullet smashed into his skull. _Dear God, he really hoped not._ It was appalling and unimaginable, but it had happened. It had happened to Don.

"I'm sure it wasn't the only reason." Megan's tone was gentle. "Don's desire to protect you and Alan, although powerful, it's not enough. Don's a tough man, Charlie, he walks a tough road every day. The instinct to survive - to fight for his life - it's strong. An intrinsic part of him. That night in the quarry, better make no mistake, he was fighting for himself, as well."

_Was she right?_ Charlie really hoped so. If she was, then there was still half a chance. A chance Don would pull himself out of this. That once more, he could conquer the odds.

"He needs us to help him." His voice sounded fragile and very small. In a way, he was thinking aloud.

"More than you know," Megan smiled. "More than you probably ever guessed. He deals with a thankless pile of stuff most folk can't begin to imagine. A lot of the way he handles the stress is purely down to you and Alan. His family keeps him grounded – you both provide a haven from the storm." She paused. "You shouldn't underestimate that. It's a basic need in us all. A place to go at the end of the day where we can feel safe and loved."

"And Don knows that, right?"

It was a desperate plea for affirmation. Charlie needed to hear Don knew. That he realised how much he meant to them, and his family would always be there. So much water had flown under the bridge – so much had been snared in the undertow. Notwithstanding, or in-spite of the past, Don _had_ to know he was loved.

"He knows."

Charlie nodded. He really hoped it was true. He felt as though he'd been blown through a hurricane, bowed under by the weight of his genius. It was a humbling responsibility. Now, more so than ever. When he considered what his family had done for him, all the sacrifices made on his behalf. At the time, he'd been oblivious to any of it, too immature and uninformed to realise. He'd been entranced by the wonders of discovery and scholarship, always pushing the parameters of his mind.

Mom had devoted herself to him, and dad worked long hours to raise the money. The household had revolved around him, and he hadn't even known. And Don – Don was caught in the middle. No wonder he'd become so self-sufficient. Don too, had been forced on a voyage of discovery, learning some hard lessons of his own.

"How's Don doing, Charlie?" Megan interrupted his thoughts. "I mean, how is he _really?_ You've done a good job of keeping us at arms length, but the smokescreen is starting to clear. I can see you're worried about him. You know you can talk to me?"

Yeah, he did. He knew she would be discreet. He could tell her the truth in confidence. She was a professional, bound by an oath of confidentiality, but more importantly, she was Don's friend.

Charlie let out his breath with a sigh, and picked at an imaginary thread on his shirtsleeve. "Physically, he's doing much better now. The last CT scan showed the fracture is healing and the infection is under control. There's still evidence of bruising on the frontal lobe of his brain – John Parks thinks that's what caused the . . ." he paused, and looked at Megan uncertainly. He hoped he was doing the right thing. Don's job - his work at the FBI - it meant so much to him. Charlie took a deep breath and continued. ". . . loss of strength in Don's left arm. Apparently, there's often a disturbance in motor function when this part of the brain has been injured. They're pretty sure it'll be temporary though, once the bruising heals and with plenty of physio."

"Uh-huh." Megan's green gaze never left him. _Damn, but the woman was persistent._ "You know, I need to come and talk to him soon. We need to take down his statement."

"Sure - " Sarcasm reared its ugly head again. "But why bother when Lomax and Miller will walk? The men who kidnapped and shot him are dead. Why make Don relive the nightmare?"

"Charlie, you know it's procedure." Her face darkened a little. "So Lomax and Miller think they cut a deal, but I promise you, we _will _get them. From now on, we'll be watching their every move. It's only a matter of time."

_Only a matter of time. _

Charlie thought of Don in the hospital. He wanted his brother back. How much time would it take for Don's wounds to heal – before any of them could return to normal?

"Frontal lobe injuries can also cause depression." Megan was carefully straightforward. She didn't pull any punches. "Sometimes, it can take a while for moods and emotions to adjust. The sooner things get back onto an even keel, the better it is for the patient. If Don needs any help getting through this, then now's the time to tackle it head-on. The love and support of his family and friends – unobtrusive, but always available. Be there for him, but don't push him. Give him space, but don't let him dwell on things. And, above all," she smiled for the first time, "above all, remember, Don's strong."

_She was right,_ Charlie realised. As she so often was. He'd been fuelled by unrealistic hopes. Life was nothing like the movies – it wasn't sanitised, fantasy land. In reality, people who'd been shot in the head, didn't just wake up and smile. They didn't open their eyes and remember. They weren't immediately, miraculously fine.

_No – not even his brother. _

It was going to take time and patience for Don to get well again. A lot of love and wisdom to guide him safely back through the fire. _Well, _Charlie straightened up in the chair._ He would prove he was up to the task._

Anything dad or Don needed – he was determined to be there for them.

* * *

_**Huntington Hospital – Neurological Unit**_

Don waited until the door clicked closed before cautiously opening his eyes. Now the nurses had finished at last, he was grateful to be alone. A flush of relief stole through him - the solitude was a rare and welcome luxury. He felt like he was going a little crazy. Ever since the first day he'd woken up, he'd seldom been left by himself.

John Parks had dragged dad away, under duress, to get some physiotherapy to his neck. It was evident how much it hurt him, but the old man was too stubborn to admit it. He'd been walking around in obvious pain, grumbling and grousing at Charlie. Popping Advil like there was no tomorrow, and generally driving them all nuts.

Don had lain there, biting his tongue and feeling slightly guilty. _Dad had actually carried him. _He still found it hard to believe. _Picked him up like a sack of potatoes, and run with him, slung over his shoulder._ Under any other set of circumstances, he would have paid good money to see it.

Charlie had hung on another half hour before heading off downtown. He'd muttered something about _'a few loose ends,'_ but did he really think Don was that stupid?

It was clearly something to do with the case. Maybe some news about Redondo?

Could be they'd found his body? It was hard to believe the man was dead. Apparantly, he'd been caught in the explosion, when he'd gone to finish the job out at the quarry.

The_ job_ - Don grimaced a little at the word. He supposed it was one way of describing things. He turned carefully onto his good side and heaved himself up a little. They'd just taken out the last of his tubes and it felt good to move freely around the bed. _Or,_ he pulled a face,_ maybe he ought to add a caveat. It felt good to move as freely as his useless body allowed._ He banged his head against the pillow in frustration and regretted it almost immediately. A wave of dizziness washed through him. He closed his eyes against the sudden reel of vertigo.

_Perhaps, he really was that stupid._

Yeah - it certainly felt that way. His mind was still pretty cloudy, groping up through the layers of fog, in an elusive search to remember. He waited for the rocking to go away before opening his eyes again. This time, he was rather more careful. He _had_ to get through this thing.

It felt like he'd been zapped with an alien mind-ray. A mind-ray from the planet Zog. It had stolen the last of his grey matter and wiped his brain clean of memories. The last thing he could positively recall was leaving the office to have lunch with dad. He'd called out something to Megan and walked to the elevator. He'd been tired and kinda hungry – _yup, he remembered that._ They were due to meet up at Echo Park. He hoped dad had stopped by _Langers. _

Anything after that was a blank. Not fuzzy, not a blur, but a blank. He supposed he'd gone down in the elevator and stepped out of the car in the basement. Well, all right – _he actually knew that_ – so in a way it was cheating. It was one of the few things they'd told him. He'd been attacked in the Parking Lot.

_His assailants had shot him in the head._

Don stared across at the window. His whole world had narrowed to this. A tiny, sterilised microcosm, where he lay and fought to exist. Okay, so maybe his use of the word _exist_ was being a tad melodramatic, but he felt as though he was drowning. Thrown and battered on the sharp rocks of destiny, and pulled under by the weight of the unknown. Under the current circumstances, he _ought_ to be excused melodramatic. He _ought_ to be excused anything, just this once in his life.

_Admit it, Eppes, you're terrified._

His mouth twisted into a bitter smile. Thank God, only the walls could see him. It was lucky he was alone. His body wasn't working, and his mind was all screwed. He could only imagine what he looked like. If they thought he'd lost his marbles to boot, he would be well and truly bust. Truth was, he felt a little frightened. More than a little, in-fact. For the first time since he'd been a small boy, he wanted to pull the blankets over his head, and bury down under the covers.

_Never back down from anything. Tackle your problems head-on. Be there, always be there for them. Stand in front of the gun._

And he had done. He'd done his duty. For family and friends and his country. He'd swallowed his fears, and stepped up to the plate, time after freakin' time. Don Eppes, always reliable. Mister fucking, conscientious. _So, why not now – why couldn't he do it?_ He should get off his lazy ass and fight.

He turned his face away from the window.

_It was just that he felt so damned tired._

_Depression._ Or so John Parks had said. It was a common side effect of his injury. Something about the frontal lobes of the brain being the emotional control centre. Don considered things candidly. Perhaps it wasn't solely his injury. He'd been fighting to keep his head above water - skating on thin ice for quite a while. Not wanting to acknowledge the dreaded word to himself or concede he might have a problem. At the very least, he'd been feeling overwhelmed for far longer than he cared to admit. By the job, by his responsibilities – in reality, by the whole of his life. For a time now - for such a hell of a time - he'd been weary and kind of melancholy. Stumbling his way through the present, too scared to think about the future all that much.

_Whichever way around he looked at it, he always seemed to end up alone._

So, the injury had created this lethargy. The feeling he couldn't be bothered. But if he was being brutally frank, the abyss had been looming large in front of him.

With a clarity as sharp as a splinter of ice, he suddenly had an insight into Charlie. It was cruel and pretty ironic it should be brought on by something like this. Perhaps it was a genetic thing, a familial predisposition to depression? No wonder Charlie locked himself away when the world got too much to bear. All those days and nights in the garage. All that time living like a hermit. The relentless clack of the chalkboard, and obsession with P v NP. Don felt a flash of pity and shame as he remembered his lack of perception. _Empathy was different to sympathy._ He understood the distinction now. He'd been sympathetic towards Charlie, but at the time, he'd still condemned his behaviour. He'd never really forgiven his brother for neglecting his family back then.

_You can only feel empathy when you've been there._

Don felt he was _there _with a vengeance.

The door to his room swung open again. Speak of the devil, it was Charlie. Although, if ever there was a misnomer, then that old idiom had to be it. Anyone less devil-like than Charlie, it was pretty hard to imagine. His brother still retained a naiveté which fooled those who didn't look beyond the obvious. Don sighed, and closed his eyes again, although he knew it was churlish. He really didn't want to see anyone - really didn't want to talk.

_Why couldn't they just understand and leave him in peace for awhile?_

In case they hadn't noticed – he'd recently been shot in the head.

"Hey, Don," Charlie sounded remarkably cheerful. Far too enthusiastic and chipper, in-fact. He didn't look all that unlike Tigger, as he bounced into the private room. "Sorry to state the obvious, but I'm back."

_Well, duh, way to go, little brother._ Don wondered if he'd been on the caffiene?

"It's time for your physiotherapy session. Maybe, we can meet up with dad, and go to the caffeteria for a coffee. Well," Charlie ammended hastily, before he hurried on; "_you_ can't have a coffee, of course. Not until John says you can have caffiene. But just as an extra special treat, I get to wheel you down there today."

Don heard the unoiled squeak of a wheelchair, followed by several violent bangs and crashes. He winced, and imagined the damage to the paintwork, as Charlie dragged it in through the door. _Driving never had been his brother's strong point._ _Talk about your understatements._ Don slid a little further down into the bed. Damn - he really didn't need this right now. It was one of the unforeseen penalties of having the last of his tubes removed. Theoretically, it meant he was mobile again, although in practise, he was anything but.

"The sooner we get you working on that arm, the better."

_Things were getting positively spooky. It appeared Charlie had taken up mind reading._

"John is pretty optimistic you'll regain complete use of it again."

_Get lost, Charlie, please go away. _

Don screwed his eyes tightly together. _Couldn't his genius brother take a hint?_ He listened with growing resentment as Charlie prattled on. _Regain complete use of his arm again - who did Charlie think he was kidding?_ Not in a month of Sundays. His arm, like his brain, was fried.

"Don?" He felt the mattress move beneath him, and the shift of Charlie's weight on the bed. "Don, open your eyes, I know you're awake. God, I'm getting tired of this."

_You're getting tired of it?_

Suddenly, Don felt like yelling. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Why couldn't Charlie understand he wasn't ready to stand up and fight? He opened his eyes into tiny slits. He felt cold and dead inside._ Cold_ – a shiver ran through him. The merest shade of a memory. It was gone before he could reach for it, evaporating like a curling wisp of smoke.

"Are you cold again?" Charlie felt the tremor run through him, and was immediately full of contrition. "This is _so_ unlike you, Don, you never feel the cold. Talk about role reversal," he hesitated a moment, "it's usually me who's complaining. Strange, the night – the night you were missing - I don't think I ever felt so cold before in my life."

Don sighed with resignation, and dragged his eyelids apart. It was becoming painfully obvious Charlie had no intention of leaving. Their glances locked for a second, both of them equally determined. Don was aware of a jolt of surprise when Charlie didn't back down. This was a side of his brother he very rarely experienced. When it came to getting the upper hand, he generally won, no contest.

"I'm beat – head hurts."

He decided to play the same old card, and besides, it was the goddamn truth. He'd never been so tired in his life, and what's more, his head hurt like a bitch. With any luck, Charlie would feel guilty enough to leave him alone to get some rest.

Today was not his lucky day. He hadn't had a lot of those lately. Charlie continued to stare at him and chew on his lower lip. He was deep in thought about something and Don's heart sank even further. He could almost see the wheels and cogs whirring around in his brother's head. This did not bode very well for him. He recognised the look of old. When Charlie got a bee up his ass, he always became really focused. _No_ - Don heaved another massive sigh, _better make that obsessed._

Why did he have a feeling this was not going to end very well?

"Are you going to lie there forever?" Charlie looked like he'd reached a decision. He settled himself back nonchalantly, and hooked his leg up on the bed. "And, just for your information, I have no intention of leaving."

Don shrugged and turned his head away. "Suit yourself," he said.

"You know, I _used _to have this big brother," Charlie examined his fingernails. "_He_ never gave the impression of being afraid of anything. Throughout the whole time we were growing up, he was always the toughest kid in school. Then later, he joined the FBI and became one heck of an agent. He faced down the bad guys so many times – he'd be damned if he ever let them win."

"Don't."

Don didn't want to hear it. Not now, and maybe not ever. He was sick and tired of being invincible. Of always having to be strong. The pervasive cold was back again, spreading like ice through his veins. He didn't feel like being tough, or facing anyone down. Instead, he felt weak and afraid.

For once - _just for once _– why couldn't they let him?

"Don - " Charlie's voice was softer now. "You know, one of the things I admire about you most? You've always had such a shining sense of justice. A really acute, gut instinct, about what's right and wrong. It's something you've had all your life. With your job, with the bullies in the playground. Out there on the sports field, whenever you stepped up to the plate."

"Charlie, I said, _don't."_

"Like the way you put your family first, when you came back home from Albuquerque." Charlie was, apparently, oblivious. "You do stuff because you know its right, however much it might hurt you." He paused, unsure for the first time, as Don remained doggedly unresponsive. "Don, please. I know we always expect a lot from you – in the past, maybe too much – but the biggest injustice to come out of all this, would be if Redondo won."

_What the hell did Charlie want from him? _

To leap up from his bed, with a shrug of his shoulders, and pick-up where his life left off? Who did they think he was, Superman? Some form of fucking android? No man, not even, Special Agent, fucking Eppes, could ever be _that_ strong. Don was appalled to feel his eyes filling up with tears of rage and self-pity. He wouldn't – he couldn't do this. He never cried in front of Charlie. He never cried in front of anyone.

_In-fact, he hardly ever cried at all._

Maybe that was part of the problem.

He tried to move his left arm again. It remained still and heavy, like a log. There was a trace of pins and needles in his fingertips, but aside from that, the limb seemed to mock him. As far as he knew, his left leg was okay, although as yet, he couldn't really be sure. To date, he'd only made the undignified transfer from the edge of his bed to the commode. Ironically, during this process, it was his ribs which caused the greatest discomfort. They must have blindsided him with a crowbar, judging by the amount of pain.

_They._ His mysterious assailants. The frustration surged over him again. He still couldn't remember their faces. _He couldn't remember a thing._ John Parks had spoken to him frankly, and explained that he probably never would. The underlying implication being, the amnesia was the better option. Less harrowing, less traumatic. Far easier to cope with, in the end.

_Was it?_

Don found it kind of hard to agree. He hated the degree of uncertainty – the terrible insecurity of not knowing. In his world, chaos and anarchy ruled. Or, at least it would, if he let it. He dealt with lawlessness everyday, working damage control on the consequences. It had always been of vital importance to keep his own life firmly under control. Hence the reason he very rarely got drunk – however much he enjoyed a beer or three. And why he pushed a headache to the very brink of migraine, before he gave in to the sweet relief of Tylenol.

_Control-freak._ He'd heard the words before. Had them levelled at him in the past. It was one of the many, little things, that had once driven Kim Hall to distraction. The rows of books arranged by genre, his alphabetised CD's. The racks of colour-coded shirts and ties, his bills and paperwork filed. Okay, his fridge might be empty, but his kitchen was neat and precise. The small touches of order gave him comfort, in a strange and obsessive kind of way. He supposed it was a poor man's version of the strength Charlie got from his numbers.

_Charlie._ He looked up into his brother's face. It was clear, he wasn't going away. For the first time, he noticed the lines of strain. Charlie had lost a bit of weight. _Because of him,_ he realised, and the worry of the last few weeks. A tide of remorse washed over him again, as he studied his brother's bony frame. It must be so deeply ingrained in him, it had become the sum of who he was.

Don gave a sigh of resignation. _Shining sense of justice – yeah, right._

There was no escaping the inevitable. His next step was preordained. He was Don Eppes, Charlie Eppes's big brother, Alan's older, more responsible son. He was going to struggle up out of his bed and force himself into the damned wheelchair. _To risk his life and what was left of his limbs, and let Charlie push him to physio. _

Once there, he would work really hard on his arm. He would suck it up, and do as they expected.

_Dad and Charlie both needed him. And because of that, he had to get well. _

His earlier bout of petulance jumped up and bit him. Bit down firmly on his ass. It was typical and more than ironic - but he really_ did _feel worn out. Way too tired to go down to physio, in-spite of his weary acceptance. Way too tired, to do the big brother thing, although he'd come to a reluctant decision. Don had to hand it to Charlie – his brother truly _was_ a genius. Charlie had guilted him out of his sick-bed with no more than a puppy-dog look, some judicious use of those big, brown eyes, and a few, well-chosen words.

_Depression._

So okay, it was out there. The word alone couldn't hurt him. Don knew he had to face up to it. Had to take the bull by the horns. It wasn't just the sequelae of his injury, if he was honest, it had been lurking for awhile. Always there in the background, just simmering away below the surface.

_Whatever._ He would do what had to be done, in order to get his life back. But first, he had a few conditions; _it was about time they told him the truth. _If he wasn't going to retrieve his memories, then someone else had to fill in the blanks. He needed to know what they'd done to him. How they'd hurt him, where they'd taken him, and why.

_To be told all the cold, hard facts of the case, without anyone softening the blows._

If dad and Charlie refused to tell him, he would insist on hearing it from Megan. As far as he knew, until the FBI decided otherwise, he was still lead on the Redondo case.

"You can't get me out of the bed by yourself." Don tried not to sound too flat. He groped around for the call-button. "I'll get hold of one of the nurses."

"Don – hey," Charlie lit up like a Christmas tree, which only made Don feel even guiltier. "You're not going to regret this. A few weeks of intensive physiotherapy, and you'll be just as good as new."

If Charlie thought this was going to be easy, he was in for a rude awakening. Despite all John Parks's encouraging words, Don wasn't quite so convinced. His arm was dead and useless – for all he knew, so was his leg. And as for his brain – depression swamped him again. _It was simply_ _better not to go there._ He may as well start facing up to the facts, this might be a colossal waste of time.

Don rolled himself over to the edge of the bed, wincing at the pressure on his ribcage. Might as well get things over with – and then he could talk to Megan.

_Come on, Eppes, put a brave face on it. Drag your sorry ass outta bed. Get back on your feet and deal with things. _

_Your life? It is what it is._

**_TBC_**


	18. Chapter 18

_**Set the Fire**_

* * *

_I'm miles from where you are,  
I'm laying down on the cold ground,  
And I – I pray that something picks me up,  
And sets me down in your warm arms . . .'_

_'Set the Fire to the Third Bar' _Snow Patrol with Martha Wainwright

* * *

_**Chapter Eighteen**_

* * *

_**Eppes House – Pasadena – 10 weeks later**_

Megan waited for Don to climb into the car, and hesitated for the briefest of moments. It was instinctive to want to help him with the seatbelt, but she stood aside and bit back the urge. She knew her boss well enough by now to know the gesture would be unwanted. Even worse, if he was feeling out of sorts, it might even earn her a rebuke. Instead, she watched surreptitiously, as he reached down and pushed the clip into the holder. The movement was a little clumsy, but he performed it with direction and force. She felt her heart lift up out of the doldrums as she walked around to the driver's side. It was inspiring and truly remarkable to see how much progress he'd made.

But then again, that was Don all over.

Determined always _was_ his middle name.

It was hard to accept, that only twelve weeks ago, he'd been fighting for his very life. Even now, she felt sick to remember it - all those terrifying days and nights. She hadn't thought they would find him alive, let alone that he'd survive his injuries. The scene in the quarry still haunted her. It was enough to make her start believing in miracles.

Yet, here he was, back to his independent self, and pretty much on the road to recovery. Not that any of it had been easy. Megan knew how hard Don had struggled. He'd driven himself to the point of exhaustion to get his body functioning again. She could just about see where they'd shaved a swathe through his hair, but it had grown back, thick and dark as ever. If he gave up the battle, and let it grow long, it would be just as unruly as Charlie's.

Megan smiled, her mood lifting even higher. _Most men would kill to have the Eppes' hair gene. _

There was the crimson hint of a fading scar snaking up from his temple, but apart from the fact he still walked with a cane, no one would guess what he'd been through.

No one who didn't know him, that was. _If they didn't look into his eyes. _

Megan sighed. It was his eyes that worried her. There was something that wasn't quite right. Like a haunting, a fleeting expression, only captured in unguarded moments. Nobody – _no, not even Don_ – could come through such an ordeal unscathed. Head injuries were the devil. No one could predict the outcome. Some folks recovered and got on fine with their lives while others were damaged forever. There was no point asking him about it. Don was notoriously tight-lipped. If he wanted to tell her anything, it would have to be on his own terms. She hoped he was talking to someone, that he was receiving some form of counselling or aftercare. Knowing Don, she had her misgivings.

She really hoped she was wrong.

There was no indication of any angst now, though. Don was in an agreeable mood. He'd been up-beat and pleased to see her, and she had to admit, he looked good. Megan wondered if his buoyancy would last the distance once she told him the latest news.

She backed out of the driveway, and drove off down the road, just happy he was sitting beside her. She hadn't realised how much they relied on his strength until it had been snatched out from under them. Don had never gone in much for an over-dominant style of leadership. He managed to maintain both control and respect, while encouraging his team's various strengths. She sneaked a quick look at his profile. He was paler and thinner than usual. Although his eyes were fixed firmly on some point straight ahead, his mind was clearly elsewhere.

"Penny for them?" She volunteered, at last. Perhaps he might open up to her. Although Don was surrounded by family and friends, he sometimes looked like the loneliest man on earth.

He blinked, and turned to smile at her. The transitory loneliness was gone "Sorry – guess I was miles away there. Another time and place."

"Deja-vu?"

"A little," he gave an uncomfortable nod. "But that time, I never made it as far as the car."

"So, today you get to finish what you started. You get to reach the end of your journey."

"Megan," Don raised his eyebrows and laughed at her. "Don't give me that psychologist's crap. _Today,_ I get to go to the park and eat _Langers _pastrami with dad."

She realised how _New-agey_ she'd sounded. Positively hippy, in-fact. It was good to laugh alongside him - even better to hear him laughing again. "Okay, peace and love, I apologise. And I promise you, no more psycho-babble." She deliberately changed tack. "On a far more pertinent subject, any news of a return-to-work date yet?"

"Physio's pretty pleased with my arm. He reckons four more weeks or so."

Don shrugged, a shade too carelessly. The arm was obviously still a sore subject. Megan didn't need a degree in psychology to understand why it freaked him out. To lose the use of a limb was bad enough, especially to an active man like Don. But in this case, it would be much more than physical loss, it would mean loss of job, and loss of self as well.

"Apparently I'm making good progress." There was a heavy dose of irony in his tone. "I have to get through, like a whole bunch of muscle strength and coordination tests, before the Bureau will let me back on active. Re-up my gun and pass the physical again, you know the Company drill. I'll be stuck on desk duty for a little while until it all comes together."

"And the cane?"

"Leg's fine. It's fine." Don pursed his lips. "The cane's just to keep dad happy. I lost my balance and fell a few times back at the hospital, and you know how dad and Charlie get."

Megan smiled. She did indeed. She'd seen it up close and personal. Fond as she was of them, and dear as they were, she guessed they'd been driving Don crazy. "You know, they've both been terrific." Fair was fair, as Larry would say, she felt she had to stick up for them a bit. "Charlie's really surprised me. He's been so strong through all this."

"I know."

Don was silent for several seconds. There was something – _was it weariness_ – in his voice? He very adeptly changed the subject before she had a chance to push it further.

"So, look, what's the news on the Redondo file? Anything fresh I should know about?"

Here it was, then, the part she'd been dreading. But Don had a right to know the truth. Megan gripped the steering wheel for courage, and pulled in abruptly at the kerbside. It was lucky there was nothing behind her - they were still in a residential area. She turned off the engine and looked honestly at Don, knowing he was not going to like what she had to say.

"As a matter of fact, there is. There was a major development waiting on my desk this morning."

"Well, come on, let me have it, already." Don picked up on the signals she was sending. His body was rigid with tension as he leaned slightly forward in his seat.

"Bobby Lomax was gunned down last night. At the freight warehouse down on the waterfront. No witnesses, no nothing to go on. Some workers found his body first thing." She watched as Don pinched the bridge of his nose, his forehead furrowed in concentration. The habit was so familiar, it brought a lump to her throat. "Ballistics is working on the bullets and forensics have sealed off the warehouse. Frankly, I'm not very hopeful they're going to come up with much."

"You think?" Don sounded cynical. "And Miller? Any sign of him?"

"If he's dead, then they moved the body. Nothing's turned up yet. Could be the Russian mob, I suppose. They've been moving in on the market. Get Lomax and Miller out of the way, and it leaves the gate wide open."

"You got someone looking into that, right? Should be easy enough to corroborate. You need to talk to Gary Walker. He'll know what, if anything's, going down with the Russian guys."

"I already left a message for Walker. We're meeting up after I drop you at the park. Don - " she placed a hand on his arm. "I promise, I'm right on top of it."

"I know," he let out his breath in a rush. "I know, and I appreciate it. I don't think I got round to telling you yet, but you're doing a really fine job."

"No, you didn't get around to telling me, and that's why I wasn't worried," she quirked her lips at him. "If I was doing anything wrong, you'd be the first one to kick my ass. I know all your habits, Bossman, so you'd better shape up and hurry back."

He smiled at her then, and the sun came out. Or, at least figuratively so. Damn, but the man should smile like that more often – _and then again, maybe he shouldn't. _It was bad for her equilibrium - especially when Larry was away. _But,_ and Megan sighed, _it had to be said._

_Oh boy, that was some smile._

Don Eppes was an understated man. He had been, ever since she'd known him. There was nothing of the flamboyant about him - Charlie must have inherited that gene. Don was neat, always well put together, with a dress sense which was classical but sober. Never one for exaggeration, he was also pretty spare with his praise. And that's why it meant so much to her. She felt a lump tighten in her throat. One disjointed sentence from him, just as prized as that incredible smile.

Highly valued, but oh, so rare. Gone in a fleeting moment.

"Don, I . . ." she tightened her grip on his arm. "Don't you dare do anything like that to me again. You might be a control-freak, pain in the ass, but you're my partner and my best friend."

"Careful, Reeves," he placed a hand on top of hers, and squeezed her fingers lightly. "Don't go getting all emotional on me."

"Hah," she gave a scornful snort. "You'd better be careful, buddy. When it comes to hiding my emotions, I learned from the best there is."

Some of the light went out of him then, and the great smile faded a little. The wattage went down from incredible, to settle somewhere around wonderfully attractive. It was there again - she caught another brief glimpse of it. The shadowy ghost behind his eyes. Darkness – or even worse than that. A brief fluctuation of despair.

"Don - " she spoke involuntarily. "You know you can talk to me, right?"

"You think I need to?" He asked, quietly.

"Everyone needs to talk sometime."

She was afraid of pushing him too hard. He was always so intensely private. Say the wrong thing here, and she'd lost him forever. He might never open up to her again. Instinct told her to keep it generic, to remain as impersonal as possible. But how the hell was she supposed to do that, when the man beside her was her best friend?

"I get so tired sometimes." Don saved her the problem. "Just so fucking tired."

Trust Don to strip it right down to the bone. To the most concise of sentences. It told her more in a few, succinct words, than any dramatic tirade. She knew, with a sense of helplessness, he wasn't referring to his injury. Not even to the way he'd driven himself over weeks of intensive physiotherapy. He'd worked at getting well like a man possessed, and surpassed all his doctor's expectations. No surprise to anyone who knew him, but still, it must have taken a toll.

It wasn't that kind of tiredness. It was more profoundly ingrained than that. From the sound of his voice and the look in his eyes, it went right down into his soul. She'd seen traces on more than one occasion – had picked up on clues it was there - an intense and weighty exhaustion, which cut deeper than the physical scars.

"What does John Parks say?"

Megan felt like she was treading on eggshells. One incorrect word, if she messed this up now, the opportunity would be lost forever. Knowing Don as well as she did, it was better to stick to the physical. If she limited the discussion within the boundary of his injuries, she stood more chance of getting him to talk.

"Surprise - he says it's down to the head injury. Some sort of medical, mumbo-jumbo, about a bruise on the frontal lobe of my brain. It's making me more labile then usual. More susceptible to my emotions." Don gave a bitter laugh. "Yeah, right."

"What, you don't think he's got a point?"

He shook his head ruefully at her. "Helluva shot there, Megan, top marks for good intentions. I can see what you're trying to do, so let's consider the subject closed. It's not that I don't appreciate it, but I thought we agreed no psycho-babble." He straightened up and pulled away from her. "In any case, the man's probably right. He ought to know what he's talking about. Give it – I don't know, a couple more weeks, and I guess everything will work out fine."

"I hope so," she answered him, quietly. The conversation was patently over, and Don was covering his tracks. "Just be sure and take things easy. Don't be too hard on yourself. The name's Don Eppes, not _Superman_. Nobody thinks you're indestructible."

She turned the key in the ignition and pulled back out into the traffic. They drove in silence for at least five minutes before Don spoke again.

"So, getting back to Lomax. If not the Russians, then who?"

"I don't know," it hurt to admit it. Redondo's name loomed unspoken between them. It was impossible, she'd been out at the quarry. _It was impossible the man had survived._ "Miller, maybe? Carmine's gone, so it's a rare and golden opportunity. He knows the business, has all the contacts. Only Lomax is standing in his way?"

"Somehow, it doesn't sit right." The frown lines were back on Don's brow. "Miller doesn't have the _cojones _to pull something like that by himself. He's not very bright, a lackey. Nothing more than a loyal, yes-man."

_A loyal, yes-man. _

Megan felt a rush of cold inspiration. The feeling was not a pleasant one. She took her eyes off the road for a second and flicked a glance sideways at Don. He looked back at her in grim comprehension, the pieces all falling into place. He'd spent several months working alongside these scumbags. The answer was staring them in the face.

"Carmine Redondo's, loyal yes-man. That's exactly what he is. I'll send a team down to pick him up. Do you think he acted out of revenge?"

"Hope so, I really hope so." Don didn't look like he believed it.

The alternative was almost unthinkable.

_It meant Carmine Redondo was alive. _

**_TBC_**


	19. Chapter 19

**_Set the Fire_**

* * *

_I'm miles from where you are,  
I'm laying down on the cold ground,  
And I – I pray that something picks me up,  
And sets me down in your warm arms . . .'_

_'Set the Fire to the Third Bar'_ Snow Patrol with Martha Wainwright

* * *

_**Chapter Nineteen**_

_**Echo Park – Los Angeles**_

When they pulled up at Echo Park, Alan had already arrived. He was waiting just outside the entrance carrying the trusty picnic hamper. Don stood still for a minute, and watched as Megan drove off to meet Walker. For the first time, he wished he could go with her. Must be a good sign he supposed. It wasn't that he didn't trust her to handle it – he did – one hundred per cent. It was just that this was personal. He needed to stay in the loop.

He'd kept his feelings under control when she'd told him about Lomax. He was pretty sure she hadn't seen the rush of panic that gripped him. _Pretty sure, but not positive._ Megan had a habit of seeing too much. It was why she was such a good profiler.

_She was one of the few,_ he suspected, _who had any real idea how he felt._

Terry Lake had always known. She'd always worried about him. Not the same way as dad and Charlie, although maybe he was doing them a disservice. Sometimes, people were only capable of seeing what they wanted to see. They took everything at face value and never looked beneath the surface. He was guilty of doing it himself in the past, especially with regard to Charlie.

Don frowned, as Megan was lost out of sight. He still felt oddly vulnerable. When she'd asked about the cane, he'd gone on the defensive, but it was more than just a physical prop. The psycho-babble thing had turned into a joke, a gentle leg-pull on his behalf. But in a way, it really felt like he _was_ taking the last steps of a long and traumatic journey.

Coming back here, to Echo Park, it was as though events had finally turned full circle. If he'd got as far as this, on that first, ill-fated day, who knows what might have happened?

_They would have come after him again. _

Redondo had wanted him silenced. Don faced up to the inevitability. The fact he'd survived in the Parking Lot was nothing short of a total fluke. The bullet had impacted in the front of his skull. It was a bizarre and cosmic stroke of luck.

What were the odds on it happening?

It was a freakish, almost karmic aberration. To use Charlie's favourite word, an anomaly. The prospect of them missing a second time had to be virtually zero. _Half a millimetre here - the slight tremor of a hand - a fraction of a second's timing._ The fates must have been on his side that day. Someone had truly been looking out for him.

_Face it, Eppes, you should be dead._

That was the cold, hard reality. Anomaly was right. Lying dead on the ground with a bullet in his skull, no matter where they'd finally tracked him down. And in all probability, not just him. That was even more frightening. They might have trailed him, here, to the park, then God knows, what would have happened to dad. Don's throat tightened up at the thought.

In all probability, they would have both been gunned down, and Charlie left all alone.

He supposed, in a way, it was all for the best - working out the way it had done. No one else had been hurt in the fallout, and the conclusion could have been a lot worse. So, okay, he'd missed his big day in court, but Redondo had imploded regardless. And, as for him, well, he supposed he would live. He supposed he'd get on with his life.

_Wouldn't he?_

If he loitered around the entrance for much longer, then dad was going to get anxious. Don guessed Megan had spoken to him earlier when she'd called the house to fix up a ride. He wondered if she'd mentioned Lomax. Don frowned - _if she had - she had._ He was sure dad would let him know soon enough; there was nothing he could do about it now. Honesty was probably the best policy - he would just have to roll with the punches.

The news about Lomax had woken him up and shaken him out of his lassitude. Bad as it was, in a strange sort of way, it gave Don a glimmer of hope. It had re-ignited a fire. So, okay, if he was sticking with the honesty thing, then maybe lit a tiny spark. It wasn't much in the scheme of things, but at least, it was a start. It was positive he'd wanted to tag along when Megan went to meet Gary Walker.

He might have been going stir crazy at home, but he'd felt no desire to go back to work. _No desire to do anything much,_ if he was laying his cards on the table. He played the game with Charlie and dad, he didn't want them to worry about him. To all intents and purposes, he was making an excellent recovery.

But the truth was, he was happiest (if that was the word,) whenever they left him alone.

Don tightened his grip on the top of the cane, feeling more than a little ridiculous. A bit like some cheesy _Song and Dance_ man, about to launch into a routine. Physically, he really didn't need it anymore. Emotionally, he wasn't quite so sure. He'd tentatively suggested leaving it at home, but dad nearly had a cow.

He'd fallen a few times back in the hospital due to a slight weakness in his left leg. Time, and intensive physiotherapy, had sorted that problem out. At home, he wasn't using the cane at all. He didn't need it around the house. As for his arm – Don flexed his fingers. The strength had all but returned. His coordination was still a little off, a source of massive irritation. John Parks had merely shaken his head, and told him to be more patient.

The bright sunlight glared whitely off the sidewalks. Don was glad of his _Aviators._ People hurried past him in office clothes, harried, and worn down by the heatwave. Funny, but since he'd been kidnapped, he'd been feeling the cold more acutely. Even today, in the unseasonal weather, he had needed to put on a jacket. In a way, it was kind of ironic, because historically, he'd always felt the heat. Traditionally, he and Charlie played games with the air-con controls, either sneaking them up or down, when the other one's back was turned.

Ever since the night out at the quarry, he found it hard to keep warm.

_Something sharp in the small of his back. _

_The sweet, herbal scent of sage . . ._

The memory brought him to a sudden halt. He gripped tight hold of the cane. It was there - tantalisingly out of reach - just dancing around the edges of his psyche. _Flashbacks._ John had warned him about them. A series of taunting images. Like looking at someone else's old photographs when the strange faces didn't mean a thing. Don closed his eyes in frustration, but the impressions had faded away. He was left with a feeling of restlessness. A need to go back to the scene.

"Donnie?"

Alan had taken him by surprise. He quickly pulled himself together. Once again, it made him feel guilty. Guilty he'd done this to his family. There was so much concern and anxiety still hovering behind his father's eyes.

"It's good, dad. I'm good."

"Hmm," Alan gave him a sceptical look. "If I didn't know better, I might just believe you. You have the act down to an art form."

They strolled in the direction of their favourite bench, and Don gave a tiny sigh. "So, you might as well come straight out and say it. I can tell you're busting a gut. You spoke to Megan on the phone this morning. She told you about Lomax, right?"

Alan looked at him sideways. "Actually, it was your brother. He was downtown earlier this morning, dropping off some data. I merely confirmed it with Megan when she called to fix up your ride."

"What is this, a conspiracy?" Don grumbled. "Well, look dad, it's probably nothing. A power play between some of the big boys. Most likely the Russian mob, trying to move in on the pitch. It doesn't mean Redondo's still out there."

"Glad to hear it." Alan was dry. He still didn't sound very happy.

"Come on, you guys saw what happened that day. You said yourself, it was impossible. Realistically, no one could have survived that blast. The only reason we got out alive is because of Charlie. Like I never knew it before, but it helps to have a genius on your side."

They arrived at the bench, and while Don sat down, Alan opened up the cool-box. He refrained from saying another word, while he spread out some tasty-looking food between them. Don watched, the hint of a smile on his face. He knew better than to imagine this conversation was anything like over.

He was right.

"May I remind you, they haven't found a body?" Alan handed him a paper napkin. "And now, they're not even looking anymore. I'd have a lot more peace of mind, right at this minute, if we could be sure he was dead."

"The place is a giant bomb crater. At the time, and immediately afterwards, it was crawling with FBI, Bomb Squad guys, EMT's and cops. Even if Redondo - and it's a big _if _- even _if _Redondo survived the explosion, there's no way he could have made it out of there without being spotted by someone. His car was abandoned in the parking lot. It's a heck of a long walk to Bakersfield."

"I hear everything you're saying - and I wish I could share your certainty." Alan got out the plates. "But call me bloodthirsty on this one. I'd still like a body part or two."

"Okay, _bloodthirsty," _Don flashed him a quick grin. "Hey – is that a _Langer's_ bag I see?"

"It is, and you do. But don't think, I don't know, _you're_ changing the subject. You're not in my league, son of mine."

"Seriously, dad, don't worry. Trust me on this one, right? If Carmine Redondo survived that explosion, there's no way he'd come back to Los Angeles. The man's a monster, but he's not an idiot. He's got way too much to lose if he returns. He'd be arrested or worse, on sight."

"You realise what you just did there?" Alan paused in the middle of handing him a sandwich, a haunted look in his eyes. "You spoke of him in the present tense."

"Now, wait a minute," Don sank his teeth into pastrami on rye, and savoured the wonderful flavour. _It was_ p_erfect, just the way he liked it._ The horseradish was so fiery it burned the roof of his mouth. "Don't read too much into any of this, especially not my use of tenses. It's finished – over and done with. I wish Charlie had never told you about Lomax."

"He's worried about you. We all are." Alan was abrupt. "It came far too close there, Donnie. For a while, I thought - I thought it was over. My worse nightmare come true."

_My worse nightmare come true._

For some reason, his words made Don shiver. Someone had walked over his grave.

_He lay on the ground, cold and helpless . . . there was something waiting out in there in the dark . . . _

"Don?"

"Yeah, sorry," He pulled himself together. "This sandwich tastes pretty good."

Alan regarded him with a wealth of expression, both hurt and exasperation in his eyes. Don had the grace to feel guilty again, his father was genuinely upset. He was being flippant, and he knew it, but he was tired of all this soul-searching. It would be good when things got back to normal. If they could only get past this and move on.

He placed his half-eaten sandwich on the napkin, and lent back against the bench with a sigh. He may as well get this little chat over with, and then hopefully, they could bury the subject. There was no point avoiding the conversation - or the angst he knew it would entail. When Redondo had him taken from the Parking Lot, it had sparked off a long chain of consequences. For him, and his team, even Redondo himself. And not least, for dad and Charlie.

"Look, I'm not being deliberately dense." Why was it so hard for him to do this? It was a well-known fact, and he knew it to be true, most people loved to talk about themselves. "It's just that – well, it's over, and we made it. I'd rather leave it like that." Don put his hand up quickly, as Alan opened his mouth to speak. "What you did for me – both you, and Charlie – the courage and the crazy risks you took. I can't tell you what it means to me. I know I owe you my life."

"There's no question we'd have ever done anything else." Alan's voice was soft. "Even if the outcome was different. Donnie, surely by now, you realise how much you mean to us?"

The sun was scalding his eyeballs. That explained why his eyes were stinging. _Yeah, right, that was the explanation._ Either the sun or the horseradish sauce. Dad slung an arm around him, and drew him into a quick hug. For once, Don didn't pull away. He relaxed into his father's body. The solid feel of the shoulder against him was warm and immeasurably comforting. He didn't feel awkward or over-protected, he simply needed the reassurance of touch.

_Cold. He'd been so cold out there. It ate right through to his bones. _

_Abandoned, in the darkness. Frightened, and all alone._

He sat upright with a sudden jerk. This was a great time to start remembering stuff. Just when he was coming to terms with it all and learning to cope with life again. He groped for the wisp of recollection before it vanished off into the ether. He was sick and tired of these patches of nothingness. He had to know, good or bad.

_Next to the cold, it was the terror. The fear of something waiting in the darkness. There'd been evil among the stones in the quarry. Searching, getting closer, all the time._

"Don, what is it? Are you remembering something?"

Alan shook him out of his reverie, but the memory had slipped away again. It crept out through the useless, great hole in his brain, side-stepping into who knows where.

"Something, maybe nothing. I don't know – it's more of an impression. For a moment, I think I have it, and then I lose it again." Don shook his head in angry annoyance, he felt like he was grasping at straws. "It's like feelings more than memories of lying out there in the darkness. Cold – I can remember the cold. I was so cold and in pain."

"I don't think this is such a good idea. You shouldn't try to force it." Alan was clearly distressed. "Your mind probably erased those memories for a reason. Like maybe to protect itself. You're getting over a serious injury and the brain's a pretty complex organ."

"It's all right, dad. I need to remember what happened if I'm ever going to get past this thing. You and Charlie think I'm a control freak, well, I'm beginning to agree, maybe I am - " Don sought the easiest way to explain it. To clarify his sense of unease. "It might be safer, more comfortable to forget that night, but that's not the way I deal. A part of my life has gone missing. I have to get it back to move on."

Alan gave him an old-fashioned look as if trying to reach a difficult decision. Don understood it was hard for him too. _Dear_ _God, how he longed for easy. _Dad and Charlie had risked so much to save him. They had endangered their lives out at that damned quarry.

_And incidentally,_ Don's gut tightened, _they needn't think he'd forgotten about that. _Dad and Charlie off on a personal quest - with a flagrant disregard for Megan's orders. Nope, that was one thing he hadn't forgotten. It was a whole other ballgame. A separate conversation he intended to save for a rainy day.

"Dad - you do get it, right?"

Alan sighed with resignation and sorrow. He tightened his grip on Don's shoulder. "Oh, my son, always the strong one. Sometimes, you break my heart."

"Dad - " Don felt a little shaken. "I'm sorry. I don't want to hurt you. The last few months may not been easy for me, but I know they've been tough on you too."

"You have no idea," Alan interrupted, his eyes dark with remembered grief. "I realise you don't know this, but I think perhaps you should. That day out at the quarry, I had to give you CPR. My own son stopped breathing right in front of me - it was down to me – I gave you CPR. Then the EMT's came and took over. They shocked you right in front of me and Charlie. We were forced to sit there and watch them. For a while, they couldn't re-start your heart."

_No, he didn't know what had happened._ Don stared at his father wordlessly. This was one thing they'd neglected to tell him. No one at the hospital had mentioned it, not Megan nor any of his team. Charlie – Charlie had been there too. Both his dad and his brother.

_Oh God. _

"Redondo was with you when we arrived. He had a gun pointed at your head. Megan thinks he went out there to make sure you were really dead." Alan spoke in a monologue – as though he were reciting from a script. "The klaxons were blaring all around us. It was like something out of a bad dream."

_Klaxons._

Don concentrated hard on the noise in his head. It was raucous and frantically insistent. _At last, some of it was coming back to him._ He could hear the klaxons again. _Evil. The threat of evil._ The darkness pushed at the edges of his mind. It was there, still waiting in the shadows. It was slowly taking form into . . . _Redondo._

The memory was sharp, like the blade of a knife, slicing through into his consciousness. Carmine Redondo standing over him. _Gloating – a gun in his hand._ There was something else - it made his flesh crawl. Sheer loathing, as Redondo stroked his face._ A feeling of violation as he remembered his disgust at the man's touch._

Don shivered, as the floodgates opened, and a damburst of memories rushed through. He was drowning, trapped by the undertow, as the onslaught battered him down. Image after image overwhelmed him - asssaulting all five of his senses. As though someone had pressed a button and fast-forwarded a reel of cine-film.

_Concrete and echoes in the Parking Lot. Looking up into the muzzle of a gun. _

The strange, almost surreal realisation. _It was over. His life ended here. _

_Cold. So cold. He was so fucking cold._

Suddenly, Don was freezing. The shivers increased in intensity and there wasn't a damned thing he could do. He plucked at the edges of his jacket, his body uncontrollably racked. _Useless._ It was fucking useless. For some reason, he just couldn't get warm. Don moaned, and dropped his head into his hands, as the pain in his skull expanded. The gnawing cold ate right through to his bones – _he'd never be warm again. _There was terror in the rocks all around him and monsters hiding under his bed. And no one, _no one_ to rescue him. No one to lend a helping hand.

"It's all right."

Warm arms wrapping around him. Comforting, drawing him near.

"You're quite safe, Donnie, just ride it. Just go with it, I'm right here."

_Dad._ Dad hadn't abandoned him. They hadn't left him out in the cold. Dad and Charlie had come for him. They'd saved him and brought him home.

_A squealing of car-brakes in the distance, the face of the man who'd shot him._ Don clung onto Alan like a life-belt as he was assaulted by a bombardment on all sides. _Sight, sound, scent, touch._ _He could even taste the blood in his mouth._ The pounding on all five of his senses was like a form of physical attack.

_The acrid, coppery tang of his blood. An over-riding, agony of pain. Perfume - poignant and ephemeral - the fragrant drift of sage. _

"Dad," he managed to gasp out the word. He felt numb and stupid in the head. A part of him cringed with embarrassment, but somehow, he couldn't pull away. "It was dark – I felt so cold."

"I know," Alan didn't relinquish his hold for a second, even if his voice shook a little. He rubbed circles on Don's shoulder. He still sounded wonderfully calm. "The monsters came back, didn't they? It's all right. I promise they're gone now. You're safe here, for as long as you need to be. Rest assurred, Donnie, they're gone. And as for the cold - well, that's easily sorted. I'll set the fire, when we get home. Once we've got a good blaze going, I guarantee you'll feel warm."

The cold and darkness had swallowed Don whole, but the shivering started to lessen. He leant against the rock-solid safety of Alan, as his muscles began to relax. He didn't know how long they stayed there, and quite frankly, he didn't care. It no longer mattered how awkward he felt, or if any passers-by gave them odd looks.

Waiting. Just waiting, while the panic abated.

Until the black swirl of chaos became calmer.

In due course, he regained a measure of control. He still felt incredibly shaky. The rug had been ripped out from under his feet, leaving him vulnerable and exposed. So much for wanting to know the truth. He did now – in glorious technicolour.

Every painful second he'd been conscious.

_Don remembered it all._

Eventually, he managed to pull away. Alan let him go with some reluctance. The slew of memories had forced a collision, and they both felt they'd reached an understanding. Don gathered hold of his scattered thoughts. He wondered what Freud would make of it. Talk about complicated. The man would probably have a field day if he could read Don's mind. It was something to do with mom and Charlie and a small child's feelings of abandonment.

The darkness, the fear, being shot in the head – the whole smorgasbord had combusted around him.

Redondo had become his childhood bogey. The monster hiding under his bed.

Don quickly pushed the notion aside. He'd told Megan no psychobabble. So when it came to sifting through the crap in his head, then maybe he should take his own advice. Besides, there were other, more pressing matters, requiring his immediate attention. He'd been so preoccupied fighting his own demons, he'd forgotten all about dad and Charlie.

Megan was right. They'd both been terrific. Don hoped they knew how grateful he was. Probably not, in the scheme of things, he didn't show it as much as he should. He wasn't exactly a model patient – he didn't do dependent very gracefully. Okay – so, might as well be honest, he didn't do dependent at all. He'd been cranky, depressed and frustrated.

_And that was just with himself._

He'd been independent for so long now, it was hard to cope with being reliant. Especially knowing he was responsible for the worry he saw in their eyes. They placed a burden of need on him, and sometimes, it could be a heavy yoke. _Well, all right, he supposed he could live with that. _In the long run, it was good to be needed. To have someone looking out for you - to be cherished by those you loved.

"The CPR – I didn't know." Don turned to Alan with humility. "Dad, I can't tell you how sorry I am. Sorry you and Charlie went through this."

"Did you shoot yourself in the head, Don?" Alan's response was fierce. "No? I didn't think so, then don't apologise. Charlie and I – what we went through - what happened wasn't your fault. A monster – _the _monster took you, but we defeated him in the end. It's over. Thank God, it's over. Now, all _you_ have to do is get well."

Don was silent, as he stared at the ground. The concrete was suddenly fascinating. He knew Alan, in his own, inimitable way, was not referring to his physical injuries. First Megan, and now, dad. _Was he really that transparent?_

Was he walking around with a sign on his back; _Hey, look at me – I'm a nut?_

He wished it could be as simple as that. It would be great if everything fell together. In reality, he knew it was going to take time. He needed to undergo some changes. Maybe knowing the truth would help, even though he still felt pretty unsteady. It meant he could begin to move forward and regain some control over his life.

Don lifted his head and forced a smile. He knew Alan wasn't fooled easily. If he was planning to beat this thing, he may as well start right now. He thought about what Charlie had said in the hospital. The part about Redondo winning. Carmine would be rubbing his hands in glee at the merest hint he might have succeeded.

_Redondo._

The coldness brushed over him again. Don quickly surveyed his surroundings. They were too exposed, out in the open. _He was safe - they were safe here, right?_ There were women and children feeding the ducks, and businessmen eating packed lunches. All so very innocent and ordinary. Everything looked sunny and benign. But, in reality, he knew the cold, hard truth. The thin veneer no longer fooled him.

It was a vicious jungle out there, a cesspit of vice and depravity. Filled with predators and poisonous creatures who were waiting to eat you alive.

It was time to put a stop to this.

_What, him - paranoid, much?_

He was becoming far too bitter and twisted. Time to put this thing to bed and move on. The sooner he got back to work, the better. Dad and Charlie were right on the button. All this brooding wasn't helping anyone.

It was his job to stop the monsters. To haul them out from under the bed.

He took a bite of his neglected sandwich. The horseradish burn tasted good. It stung all the way up to his sinuses, and helped clear the fog from his brain. It wasn't about Redondo, or whether the man had survived. It was about reaching the end of his journey, and being able to carry on the fight.

_Psychobabble or no psychobabble. In a way, Megan was right._

"Donnie?" Alan sounded worried. "Are you – is everything okay?"

Don took a deep breath, and nodded his head. "Yeah, dad. I'm going to be just fine."

_TBC_


	20. Chapter 20

**_Set the Fire_**

* * *

I'm miles from where you are,  
I'm laying down on the cold ground,  
And I – I pray that something picks me up,  
And sets me down in your warm arms . . .'

'Set the Fire to the Third Bar' Snow Patrol with Martha Wainwright

* * *

**_Chapter Twenty_**

* * *

_**Eppes House, Pasadena – Later that same night**_

Don awoke with a sudden start, and realised he must have been dozing. A charred lump of log had shifted in the grate and collapsed into the pile of ashes below. He looked around him and rubbed his eyes. It was long past eleven o'clock. The game must have ended awhile ago, and the television was silent.

The room was dark and bathed in shadows. The fire-glow made them dance on the walls. Only two of the table lamps had been switched on, and were surrounded by pools of amber light. Dad sat bathed in the circle of one of them, his reading glasses balanced on his nose. He was engrossed in his latest book club novel and pencilling the odd note in the margin. Charlie lounged in the other armchair, a precarious stack of papers on his knee. Mid-terms, Don guessed, by the look of it. He didn't seem to be paying them all that much attention.

"Hey," he murmured, drowsily, shifting up higher on the couch. "You guys shouldn't have let me fall asleep." He gestured towards the TV screen. "What was the final score?"

"The Ravens beat them, 16-13. McNair scored in the closing minutes." Alan placed his book on the reading table, and peered over the top of his glasses. "And as for the sleeping – we left well alone. Both of us figured you might need it. You were nodding off after five minutes or so. It's been, what you might call, a busy day."

It was on the tip of Don's tongue to argue the point, but on reflection, he thought better of it. By the time he and dad arrived home from the park, he'd felt scratchy and pretty worn out. On the whole, it _had_ been one hell of a day, both physically and emotionally exhausting. First the disquieting news about Lomax, and then the entire memory thing.

So okay, he was prepared to admit it, remembering hadn't been easy. He felt kind of raw and stripped back to the bone, each vivid image like the worse kind of nightmare.

To be honest, he felt shaky and fragile.

_Like he'd re-lived the whole thing over again._

But crazy as it sounded, in-spite of the pain, a big part of Don was glad of it. Ever since he'd woken up at the hospital, he'd been wandering, drifting in limbo. Part of his existence had been stolen away, but the lost memories helped to re-fill the hole. They'd given him back a semblance of confidence, and restored his sense of direction; for the first time since he'd been kidnapped, he was beginning to feel more like himself. And that was the crux of the matter, of course, regaining control of his life. At last, he was back on his feet again, and he could claw his way out of the pit.

"Megan called while you were napping." Charlie spoke up for the first time, he sounded a little off-key. "Guess what - there was no sign of Miller when they went to pull him in. Apparently, he's vanished without a trace. Megan had a warrant issued, but there's been no sign of him, so-far."

"Charlie - " Alan was frowning. "This isn't really the time."

"Dad, it's okay."

Don intervened. It really _was_ okay. As news went, he'd kind of expected it. Miller had acted, either out of revenge, or because someone else had ordered the hit. As to whom that _someone _might be – Don was reluctant to believe it was Redondo. The man may have been as slippery as an eel, but for God's sake, he wasn't invincible.

"Did she happen to mention Gary Walker?" He had to know while the subject was still open. If not, he would call Megan later, and catch-up on the lowdown from her. Walker, more than anyone else he could think of, would know what was happening on the street.

Charlie nodded, and regarded him with unhappy eyes. "It's funny you should ask about that. Walker's pretty adamant the Russians didn't order any hit. He reckons, in the scheme of things, they were cool about working with Lomax. Walker's drawn the same conclusion as you. He thinks Miller pulled the trigger."

"Damn," Don muttered, under his breath. Just when he'd thought it was all over. And as for finding Miller in Los Angeles - he didn't give a rat's ass for their chances. "I guess we have to look on the bright side. At least Redondo's organisation is fried."

"Don," Charlie inhaled abruptly. He was clearly struggling hard with his emotions. "Sometimes, I just don't understand you. How can you sit there and be so sanguine about it? How can you act like you don't care? If you're right, and Miller really did shoot Lomax, then the implications are huge."

"Whoa, let's not get ahead of ourselves, here," Don tried to keep the mood light. "The _implications_ – if there are any - are well and truly over and done with, just as far as we're concerned. One way or another, Redondo's gone. Bet your ass, he won't be bothering us again."

"I hope not." Charlie's brow was furrowed with concern.

"Anyone feeling hungry?" It was Alan, of course, stepping into the breach to play peacemaker. He took off his reading glasses and attempted to change the thorny subject. He gave Don what was supposed to be a meaningful look, and raised an eyebrow in Charlie's direction.

"A cup of coffee would be most excellent. De-caff, of course," Don amended, hastily, after intercepting and correctly reading the look on Alan's face. "Wouldn't want to risk staying awake, even though I spend half the day sleeping."

The deadly eyebrow raised a fraction more, and swivelled around to zero in on him. "Hmm – I realise it must be hard for you, Don, to embrace such an alien concept. Consider it making up for lost time. Let's see, like the last ten years or so."

Alan's voice was loaded with sarcasm. Trust dad not to let him get away with it. When it came to a points-scoring system, Don really should have known.

"Nice," he shook his head with a rueful laugh. "Get all those little hits in while you can."

Alan moved out to the kitchen, and they soon heard the rattle of crockery. Don glanced back over at Charlie, and nodded towards the fire. "So, dad had you outside hauling logs?"

Charlie twitched back to the present. "Huh, sorry – what did you say?"

"Earth to Charlie," Don grinned at him. "And I thought I owned the sole rights to narcolepsy in this house. The fire - " he pointed across at the hearth. "I was saying it's a nice gesture."

"I suppose."

Don sighed. This was going to be a lot harder than he'd thought, something was patently eating Charlie. It clearly concerned him and Redondo, and the news they'd received about the hit. Ever since he'd got home from CalSci this evening, Charlie had been moody and preoccupied. No amount of small-talk or changing the subject had shaken Charlie out of his funk. Don knew his brother well enough by now - they needed to get this thing aired.

"So," he bit down hard on the bullet. "You gonna tell me about that bee?"

"What bee?" Charlie was still distracted.

"The bee that crawled up your ass?"

Charlie gave him a glacial look. "There's no need to be quite so vulgar, and besides, you're not really interested."

"I'm interested," Don spread his hands out in front of him in a gesture of supplication. "Come on, Charlie, I promise, I'm interested. Let's get this out in the open, I'm asking politely, _what's up?"_

"You've been feeling the cold so much lately," Charlie's words took him completely by surprise. He dropped the stack of mid-term papers hap-hazardly onto the floor, and regarded him from under hooded lids. "You know, it really isn't like you. I remember, ever since we were children, you would always turn the air-con switch up higher."

Don felt his jaw drop slightly. _Okay, this was a tad surreal._ Here he was, trying to be all _caring-sharing,_ and Charlie worried about him feeling the cold. Don took a moment to process the data. It was his fault, he had asked for this, he had been the one to open up the topic. Better see where Charlie was taking this - may as well roll along with things for now.

He shrugged, with an attempt at lightness. "Hey, maybe I'm even cooler than I thought." Even he cringed at the words as they left his mouth. Trite - and _so_ not funny.

"Don't," said Charlie, abruptly. He clearly didn't find it funny, either. "Don't do the same thing you always do. Don't act like it doesn't matter. You don't have to protect me any more. I was there in that quarry, remember?"

"I remember," Don answered him, softly. _Yup – now, he could say it in all honesty._ "Charlie, about my memory, a lot of things have started coming back to me."

"They have?" Charlie looked up in sudden dismay. "Don – I'm sorry. When did this happen?"

"Don't be sorry – I'm not."

Don turned away and stared into the fire. The flames were burning low and blue as they licked around the whitening logs. He hitched the old afghan a little higher, more out of force of habit than any sudden chill, and settled back against the pile of pillows. Someone, either dad or Charlie, must have slipped them in behind him at some stage, during his impromptu nap.

He was usually such a light sleeper, but yet again, he hadn't even stirred.

The _Rip Van Winkle_ syndrome was one thing, and Charlie was quite right about the other. Ever since he'd come home from hospital, he had indeed, been feeling the cold. Especially in the evening when the sun went down. When night began to steal across the city.

_Out here, in California, the darkness always came quickly._

But not tonight. Not figuratively speaking. Don took stock of some things. For the first time in a long, long while, he was beginning to feel warm again. Shades of memories, like fragments of a dream. Or perhaps it was the other way around. He lay back and surfed over the images as they clustered back into his head.

_He was lying in front of a roaring log fire. _

_The flames were high and radiant bright. _

_Warm, he was warm and wrapped in blankets. It truly felt like his idea of heaven. _

_He was propped like a king, on pillows and cushions, to support his poor, aching muscles; cocooned and protected in a nest of heat to banish the implacable cold. _

_Don knew he was safe and sound now, surrounded by comfort and love. Dad was here and so was Charlie, both of them were happy to see him. To his surprise, no-one was angry because he'd been dumb enough to get caught._

Okay, it was a dream, or the memory of a dream. It was all coming back to him now. A feeling of prescience ran through him. It was so eerie looking back in hindsight.

_Maybe he'd had a premonition out there?_

_Yeah, right, _he thought, self-consciously. He was a little embarrassed by the notion. He was not usually one for flights of fancy, and since when had he got so whimsical about things? Much more of this, and he'd be hanging up crystals, or sitting cross–legged outside in the yard. It was not that he didn't believe in all that stuff - each to his own - so long as it was harmless. And to be honest, he'd always clung onto the hope there was something more out there.

It was just that he'd never been the type to engage in deep and meaningful conversation with the flowers.

"Don?"

"Yeah," he jolted back to the present. "Sorry – must have drifted for a moment."

He straightened up, and studied his brother, watching orange shadows shift and dance across his face. In the firelight, Charlie looked older. Bowed under and more careworn, perhaps?

_Dear God, had he been the cause of this?_

The carefully controlled anxiety, the barely discernible weight-loss. Don saw it there - too plainly written - in the uneasiness which clung about Charlie like a cloud.

He felt a rush of sudden affection - affection and gratitude. There were some words he really needed to say here. Words which were along time overdue.

"You know, for a while now, buddy, there's something I've been meaning to say to you."

"If it's about disobeying Megan's advice and driving out to the quarry . . ."

"Nope," Don grinned, despite himself. So okay, maybe the whole older thing was slightly premature. "I'm saving that one for later. It's not about that," he paused, a little unsure of himself. This kind of talk always floored him. He wasn't into self-analysis in any shape or form. It was hard - so damned hard - to talk about stuff like this. _Always had been – always would be._ He forced himself to take a deep breath. Probably better just to get this over with. "About what you said in the hospital – about how you expected a lot from me?"

"It's okay, you don't have to remind me." Charlie interrupted him, quickly, before he could elucidate further. "I had no right to say those things then. You were sick and depressed, I understand, it's nothing to be ashamed of." He shivered, in-spite of the glow from the fire. "For God's sake - you'd been shot in the head."

"Charlie," Don suppressed a quick smile, and cut in while he still could. Sometimes, Charlie reminded him so much of dad, there was no stopping them once they got going. "Will you slow down and listen for a minute? That isn't what I mean, either. Look – back then, I was feeling pretty sorry for myself. Your little spiel was just what I needed."

"Was it?" Charlie stared at him hard, his face working with several emotions. "Seems to me like you're doing it again. I swear you think you're made of Kevlar. There's no shame in admitting you need someone. You don't always have to be the strong one."

"I wasn't – not then - and perhaps not now." Don sought to clarify matters. "Think about it, buddy, can't you see? It was you - you took things out of my hands. _You _were being the strong one. You've been right there for me _and_ dad, throughout this whole, damned mess. And if we're gonna talk about the Megan thing - " he smiled a little. "Don't think she didn't tell me what you said."

Some of the tenseness between them vanished. Charlie relaxed a little, and gave Don a small grin. "I'll bet she said I was stubborn?"

"Yeah – among a few other choice words."

"Just like my older brother?"

"I think my memory just went again."

"Yeah, right. Selective memory, I hear it can come in handy. Let me guess, pig-headed, mulish, obdurate - "

"Obdurate?" Don laughed. "No – I don't think she mentioned _obdurate._ And as for the others – I'm pleading the 5th. After all, Megan should know."

And she should, Don couldn't deny it. Megan knew them both pretty well. What she _had_, in-fact, told him was, how the Eppes men were _all_ alike. How obstinate and uncompromising they were. How fiercely protective of their own.

Don watched as Charlie got to his feet and placed another log on the fire. The flames licked around the dried-out wood, and raised the ambient room temperature even higher. Don leaned back into the bank of pillows. It was warm and pleasantly comfortable. He felt cocooned in a nest of security, safe, and out of harm's way.

_Redondo._

Carmine had lurked in the back of his mind during the run-up to the trial. Squatting somewhere in his subconscious, like a grotesque thought-form, made life. Don could actually think of him now, without looking over his shoulder. Without the feeling of loathing which had persistently haunted his dreams. He was free, for the first time in ages. Don faced the truth, and admitted it. At last, the nightmare was over. He had shaken the monkey off his back.

_It always comes back to the monsters, _Don was almost resigned.

Whether under the bed, or subliminal, they would always be skulking out there.

With hindsight, he realised he'd never been safe. _What had happened, it was almost inevitable._

From the moment, he'd gone undercover, and Redondo had first seen his face. There'd been some kind of sick bond between them. The link between a hunter and his prey. Redondo had marked him right from the outset.

_One way or another, he'd been his._

Thinking back over the last few months, Don knew he'd been arrogant and stupid, and worse than that, thoughtlessly naïve. He should have entered a witness protection programme until Redondo had been found guilty. In the run-up before he'd been called to the stand, Redondo would have covered all the angles. One of the alternatives he might have considered was using dad and Charlie as leverage.

_Dad and Charlie. _Don felt sick. Redondo was nothing if not thorough. The man liked to cover all his bases. Don knew him well enough to realise that.

Which took him back to the underground Parking Lot.

_The place he was supposed to have died._

Leaving the hit until the last minute – until the eve he was due to give evidence. It had vengeance stamped all over it. It was so Redondo's style. Florid and over-theatrical, just like the man himself. The whole thing was a _fait d'accompli_.

A twisted game of cat and mouse.

It was over. And yet, it wasn't. Something fundamental had shifted. Don had come to a place inside his head which frightened the hell out of him. He'd been running on empty for so long now, sometimes, barely functioning at all. Paradoxically, it had taken a bullet in the skull to make him re-examine his priorities.

Every cloud has a silver lining.

_Yeah, right. Once the sky has cleared. _

Don knew he made a difference. It was a platitude, but one he clung on to. His job – if it meant keeping men like Redondo off the street - _well,_ _then_ _hey - it had to be worth it. _He'd been touched by the response of Megan and his team. By the effort they'd made to find him. But more than anything, and most of all, he'd been bowled over by Charlie and dad.

"Charlie," Don spoke very quietly. He needed to clarify the point. Had to make sure his brother knew how much it all meant to him. "What I wanted, was to tell you how great you've been. Right from the very start. You worked out where Redondo dumped me - then saved our asses when the quarry went up. And ever since then, you've been there for me. I know how much you supported dad."

Charlie gave him an old-fashioned look. It was a long time before he spoke again. When he did, his voice was uneven; soft and muted with emotion. "Consider it payment in due."

"Well, now, this was a good idea." Alan came through from the kitchen and gestured towards the rosy grate. "Setting a fire tonight. There's something a little special about a real fire, now the evenings are getting cooler."

A_ 'cup of de-caff coffee' _appeared to have grown in concept. Alan was carrying a loaded tray which he set down on the table in front of them. There was a plate of chicken sandwiches, left over from lunch in the park, some corn-chips covered in grilled cheese and salsa, and a bowl of fresh tomatoes from the yard. Don's tender stomach gave a growl of protest; there was also an enormous cheesecake. This had appeared from nowhere, and looked about as lethal as his gun.

He surveyed the mini-feast in front of him with a feeling of trepidation. He'd lost too much weight since the shooting, and hadn't really got his appetite back. This was dad being _'oh, so subtle,' _and trying to fatten him up.

He looked across at Charlie and dropped him a wink. "So, what do you reckon, Charlie? I think I'm detecting an anomaly. A tiny amount of caffeine compared to, what, a whole ton of saturated fats?"

"Ah," responded Charlie, in all seriousness. "Now we're talking comparative ratio's. I'm thinking that, in quantative terms, the fat will certainly do you more harm."

"Comparative ratio's?" Alan handed them both a paper napkin and then sat back in his chair. "I suppose you two boys think you're clever? Let me tell you, when it comes to quantative terms, as your father, I _always_ get the last say. If John Parks says you should avoid caffeine, Don, then caffeine, you _will_ be avoiding."

"But not cholesterol, obviously," muttered Don, _sotto voce. _

"Then stick to the tomatoes, son of mine."

In typical, Alan fashion, dad truly _did _have the last say.

* * *

_**Epilogue**_

_**Port de France Airport – Martinique**_

Miller blinked as he walked out into the sunshine. It was hot after the air-conditioned airport. Heat rose and shimmered off the concrete. Already, his clothes felt damp.

It was easy enough to hail a cab. It was lucky the driver spoke English. He was never gonna get used to the lingo. French was only so much gibberish to him. It had been a short flight across from Miami, approximately three hours or so to Port de France. It had been simple getting out of the country. He'd been amazed at the ease of his escape.

He handed the driver a slip of paper with instructions to his destination. The drive across the island was spectacular, but he wasn't here to admire the scenery. They drove past banana and pineapple plantations, through lush, green aisles of trees. He sat back against the seat and closed his eyes, shutting out the dappled sunlight.

There was plenty of time to explore the island.

_He wasn't going back home for a while._

All in all, it had been one hell of a year. The court case – what had happened to Carmine. If he'd known then, what he knew now . . . and it all came down to Agent Eppes.

_Eppes._

Lomax had kept tabs on his progress. Shot in the head at point blank range - the man must have the luck of the devil. Apparently, he was out of the hospital now, and expected to make a good recovery. Miller scowled, momentarily. Under the circumstances, it hardly seemed fair.

He'd been tempted to finish Eppes off for good, and his pain in the ass, genius brother. But Lomax had talked him out of it, they needed to let the heat die down. _Lomax._ The little weasel had been quite right - for a back-stabber, he'd had one or two uses. They had done a _deal_ of sorts with the DA, and managed to evade any fallout. Feeding him a load of mainly useless information in return for prosecution immunity. As far as the Feds themselves were concerned, Redondo's empire was finished. They had their precious agent back and Carmine Redondo was dead.

Lomax had been good for something. He'd papered over the cracks.

Miller smiled, nastily. He had really enjoyed taking him out. The man always was a snake in the grass. He'd betrayed them and done the dirty on Carmine. _Easy – it had been so easy._ Lomax thought he was a fool, a lackey. He'd been smug and so sure he controlled things. So certain he was the boss. Until the night back at the Freight Warehouse, when he'd felt the gun at his temple. In one, incredulous instant, Lomax had looked up into his eyes.

As payback went, it was long overdue. Especially, after what happened at the quarry. Miller shook his head a little, remembering the shock of the explosions. There was a moment when he'd thought his number was up. It was a goddamned miracle he was alive. A goddamned miracle _anyone_ was alive. The place had gone up like an H-Bomb.

No, finishing Lomax had felt pretty good, but Eppes would have to wait awhile longer. There was no way he could return to LA anytime in the near future. There was plenty for him to do out here, aside from living the high life.

And besides, until he heard to the contrary, he was still paid to do as he was told.

The taxi turned right into a driveway and stopped in front of some wrought iron gates. There was a security camera on one of the gateposts which swivelled around like an eye. After a moment's scrutiny, the gates slid smoothly open. Miller sat forward in the seat as the taxi headed up the drive.

The house at the top was quite beautiful. An Eighteenth-Century, French plantation. It was surrounded by extensive gardens, with a swimming pool off to one side. A veranda ran the length of the building, covered in a profusion of flowers. Miller nodded in admiration, the whole place really was stunning. Pretty much as he'd expected, with no expense spared on restoration.

And no expense spared on the security either. There were more cameras above the veranda. As the taxi slowed and drew to a halt, two ferocious-looking Doberman Pinschers bounded over the lawns to greet them.

Miller paid the driver and waited. There was no way he was getting out yet. Eventually, an armed security guard appeared, and whistled the dogs away. He watched the taxi head off down the driveway and then turned to face the house. The guard showed him up to the veranda, through a pair of mahogany doors. He looked around with appreciation at the air-conditioned, marble interior.

Perfect, it was perfect. And now it was his home.

He waited, filled with curiosity. Unsure of what he might find. Eventually, someone came out to greet him and ushered him to one of the side rooms. A male nurse looked up as he entered, and Miller tried to hide a smirk. The nurse was young, with smooth brown skin. He looked like a matinee idol. _Good -_ _this was good, and improving all the time._ At long last, life was getting back to normal. Just like it had been in the old days, before the advent of Special Agent Eppes. The luxurious surroundings and the pretty-boy nurse. Things must be better than he thought.

"Mister Roundhouse will see you now." The nurse showed him through to the bedroom.

Miller hesitated on the threshold while his eyes adjusted to the light. There were shutters at both of the windows, and the room was shrouded in shadow. Once Miller could see where he was going, he took a step towards the man in the wheelchair. When he got to within six feet of it, he froze, and gave a gasp of horror.

The man's skin was livid with half-healed scars. Discoloured and distorted with burned tissue. There were a few strands of hair on his puckered scalp which hung down to hide the wreck of his face. Miller gave a choke of revulsion. The injuries were truly appalling. Just when he thought it couldn't get any worse, he saw what was left of the man's hands.

They were bent and warped, two misshapen stumps, which rested on the arms of his wheelchair. The tendons had shortened and contracted into claws. There were no longer any fingers or thumbs.

"Miller." The man's voice was an urgent rasp. "It's good to finally see you. Now tell me – I've been waiting to know. _How is Special Agent Eppes?"_

_**THE END**_

Lisa Paris - 2007

NB - Mister Roundhouse, I hear you ask? The meaning of Redondo, in Spanish.


End file.
